Oblivisci
by Penthesi1eia
Summary: Hermione Doe is just a normal girl who works in a rare bookshop. Except for the headaches. And the memory loss. DRAMIONE.
1. Prologue

"Harry!" The name flies out of her, tearing up through her vocal chords.

"It is done" says the Dark Lord. He pushes the crumpled mass away with his toes, the last of the green light fading from the corpse at his feet.

Hermione lurches forward, clutching at Harry's lifeless body. _First Ron, now this…_ She shudders, forcing the image of staring blue eyes and red hair matted with blood from her mind, and glares up into snake eyes. She is the last, then. This is not how she had pictured it, when she had imagined the war ending. She had always seen the three of them, fighting together, defeating Voldemort in the Final Battle as a single force for the Light. Or perhaps she had thought she would die, possibly protecting Harry or Ron, but she had always thought the Light would win. Now Hogwarts burns around her as she watches the Death Eaters swarm over the walls, pouring into the grounds like viscous black pitch.

They had lost.

The man with the snake face sneers down at her, cocking his head and sniffing the air as if he could smell her fear. "Poor, poor little girl. To see her friends die around her, and nothing she can do. There is nothing that any of them could do. You couldn't save them, little girl. And no one is left to save you". The snake Nagini is twisting around his shoulders, tasting the blood on the air as it extends its head toward Hermione and she shudders, looking the massive snake in its eyes. It flicks out its tongue, and Hermione hears Voldemort's hiss as she closes her eyes, waiting for the fangs to slice through her neck.

Suddenly, there is a flash of silver and ruby as Neville leaps into her vision, brandishing the great sword. He lets out a guttural yell and slices, severing the great snake's head off in a fountain of blood. Voldemort screams, clutching at the writhing body of his familiar, and Hermione seizes her opportunity.

"Go, Neville! Run!" She grabs his hand and they sprint off into the darkness, tripping over the bodies of friends and foe alike as they streak away into the night. They can hear Voldemort's enraged scream as they are swept up in a wave of fleeing bodies, rolling and boiling as they bolt away from the battle. Curses fly over their shoulders as they run, sending bursts of color into the darkness and flashes of heat across their backs. Hermione sends a few of her own over her shoulder, smiling grimly as she hears bodies falling behind her.

Neville's hand is sweaty, and soon Hermione is gasping for air, clutching desperately at her sides as her tired muscles scream for relief. She feels the fall coming before it does, and she loses her footing, Neville's hand sliding out of her grasp as she collapses. She smacks into the hard earth, tasting metal on her tongue, and darkness clouds the edges of her vision. Neville turns, terror etched into his face, and yells something she can't hear over the noises of fighting and burning castle. He is nearly to the forest now, and the crowd of terrified witches and wizards sweeps him away into the trees as he struggles against them, desperately calling her name.

Hermione tastes the earth and blood in her mouth as the world begins to disappear around her. _So this is how I die,_ she thinks. _Not how I had thought… Not how I had thought at all. But this is death…_ Then there is a smudge at the edge of the blackness, and a wand is pressed to her temple.

" _Obliviate_."


	2. Chapter 1

The headaches started in late July. It was just an ache in the beginning, an annoyance that plagued her when she was tired or overworked. Now it was a constant tension between her temples, a throbbing that spread across the bridge of her nose and turned her brain foggy at a moment's notice. There was no relieving it, no matter how many pills she took or how much water she drank. _Maybe it's from too much reading_ , her friend Mark had said, sniggering. _Maybe your hair's finally starting to eat your brain_ — _we all knew it would happen someday._ He had earned a punch in the arm for that one.

Hermione rubbed her forehead, squinting at the light that streamed in from the shop's front window. This was her least favorite time of day at the bookshop. Customers were few and far between, time dragged on, and it was when her boss thought was the best time for her to do the most menial task in the shop: _reshelving_.

Hermione groaned, trying to disguise it in a yawn when a customer looked up at her warily. Hermione smiled reassuringly at the woman, but it came out more like a grimace and the woman shifted uncomfortably before returning to the shelves she was browsing. Hermione sighed. Reshelving could take _hours_. The bookseller's where Hermione worked, Wheedles and Budgery, was an enormous, sprawling monster of a shop, with more volumes than a store twice its size could house. There were books shoved into corners, double-stacked on shelves, and piled in hallways; encyclopaedias tucked in the gaps between bookcases, novels teetering on the edges of tables, and first editions scattered across dusty high-backed reading chairs.

Hermione highly doubted that it was in accordance with fire code regulations, but when she had mentioned this to the owner, Mr. Craggins, on her first day, he had merely scowled menacingly and told her to get back to work.

She breathed in, tasting the print on her tongue as she started toward the first shelves on the second floor mezzanine. She always began there, in the Ancient Literature section, because the pages there smelled the best. The scent of the inks printed in Homer and Vergil saturated the still bookshop air and made Hermione grin like a fool. There was no coming between Hermione and books—her appetite for knowledge and the written word was voracious and untamed (rather like her hair, Mark had once said. He was punched for that one too.) She sighed as she began, heaving a heavy translation of the _Iliad_ up onto its proper shelf, and let her mind wander as she moved among the stacks.

Hermione was far back in Classical Architecture before she was brought up from her reverie. "And what makes you think you are suitable for the job?" it was Mr. Craggins' rasping voice that floated up through the stacks towards Hermione, coming from the floor below. A male voice replied, low and slightly husky, and Hermione couldn't make out the words. She crept to the staircase, edging around the stuffed shelves and stacked volumes, and poked her head around the corner at the top of the stairs. Mr. Craggins was at the counter, shuffling papers and talking moodily to a tall man that Hermione could not distinguish behind the large pile of books on political theory stacked in front of him.

"This work is highly research-intensive, Mister…" the man did not supply a name, and after a moment of tension Mr. Craggins continued sourly, "I cannot let a stranger waltz in off the street to take this opportunity without references or credentials of any kind. The work of a researcher librarian is essential to—" the man cut him off, slicing across Mr. Craggins' speech in quiet, clipped tones. Hermione's interest grew and she leaned further around the books, wincing slightly as the floorboards protested loudly under her feet. There was the sound of shuffling papers, more hushed talking and a moment of silence from Mr. Craggin. Then, "I see" he said, exhaling loudly, and Hermione was overcome by curiosity. She craned her head around the corner of the staircase, trying to get a better look at the visitor and his mysterious papers, and clutched wildly at the nearest stack of books for support. Without warning the heap of Akkadian dictionaries gave way, and Hermione tumbled down the short curving staircase, coming to a halt in a sprawling heap with her nose an inch from the toe of a shiny, expensive-looking shoe.

She raised her eyes and was met with an icy grey stare. The man's face was smooth, filled with sharp angles and level planes. He had an aristocratic nose and an unsmiling mouth with full lips, and skin that was so pale it almost glowed in the afternoon sunlight streaming in from the window. His hair was shockingly blond, bordering on white, and swept back carelessly from his face. He couldn't have been much older than Hermione, yet he carried himself like he had years of experience that made him infinitely superior. Hermione stared unabashedly at the stranger before her and felt her jaw drop open slightly. A low ache began to build at her temples and she reached up absently to rub her forehead.

"Miss Doe" sniffed Mr. Craggins. "How kind of you to join us. I would like you to meet our newest patron here at Wheedles and Budgery, Mister…" he dropped off, exasperated, and Hermione heard him shift grumpily behind his counter.

"Malfoy" the man replied, and the corner of his mouth turned up with the barest hint of a smirk that was gone in an instant. "Draco Malfoy."

The effect was instant. His voice slashed through her mind, pulling on her memories and cutting at her consciousness, and the throbbing at her temples surged to a tempo that felt like it would beat its way through her skull. She gagged and barely managed to disguise it as a cough, pulling herself gracelessly to her feet.

"Pleasure," she choked out, extending her hand and pulling it away after barely grazing his fingertips. Her head spun, and she could barely breathe out the words. "Mr. Craggins, I'm…I think I'd better leave for the day."

"Miss Doe!" He fumed, "What about the reshelving? It cannot possibly be finished already! And Mr. Malfoy—"

She stumbled to the entrance, pulling her coat off the hook next to the door, all the while avoiding the grey eyes she could feel boring holes into her back. She barely glanced over her shoulder, blinking furiously at the black spots invading her vision.

"Tomorrow! I'll be in early!" she wrenched the door open and rushed out into the cool fall evening.

 _What. Was. That?_

 _..._

The tea shop was unremarkable, really. A faded awning and unexceptional window boxes adorned the building's façade, giving it an unmistakably forgotten air. The tarnished bell above the doorframe tinkled halfheartedly as the door opened to the late fall air, announcing the arrival of several crackling leaves and a particularly bushy-haired girl.

Dazed, shivering slightly from the bite in the air, her coat pulled tightly to keep out the chill, Hermione shuffled into Nora's Tea Room. She sat in her usual booth; the one by the window that faced the rather shabby pub across Bridle Lane, and soaked in the cheery warmth of the shop. Nora called from behind the counter, cheeks rosy with delight, a light dusting of flour covering her ample bosom.

"What can I get you love, the usual?" her voice carried across the crowded teashop easily and Hermione nodded her assent, smiling easily back at the older woman. When Hermione had moved into the small apartment above the Tea Room over a year ago, Nora decided to adopt the small, frizzy-haired brunette, fussing and coddling her way into Hermione's heart. She acted this way with all of her tenants, bringing up sweets after closing time and making sure each of them felt at home. There was only Hermione now, since Jenna had moved out in October to live closer to her parents, and Mark had left not long after to live closer to Jenna. The "Rooms to Let" sign now hung crookedly from the shop's window, rattling slightly in the fall wind.

Nora sidled over, mug and plate in hand, and settled herself in front of Hermione's small booth.

"There you are, poppet. I put in a slice of apple cake today, just a treat," she winked cheekily at Hermione, but her smile slipped as she caught the dazed look on the small woman's face. "What's got into you, love? Did something happen? Is it the headaches? Are you having…well, are you feeling alright?" Concern washed over her face as she set down the mug and plate with a small clink, reaching out to feel Hermione's forehead.

"I'm fine, I promise!" Hermione attempted a tremulous smile and pushed at Nora's hand, but Nora didn't fall for it. "Stress at work, I suppose…" She tried again, but it came out like a question.

"Love, you work in a bookshop! What stress is there to be had?" Nora stopped and squinted down her nose at Hermione. "Was that Mr. Craggins going after you again? I ought to have a word with him, you know. He never—"

"No, no Nora! It's nothing like that!" Hermione interjected, waving her hands. "Mr. Craggins is perfectly fine, I—I just had an off day, I suppose. There was this man and he…" at the suspicious look on Nora's face, Hermione quickly changed subjects. "And it's not just a bookshop! Wheedles and Budgery is a purveyor and collector of exotic and rare books, as well as a research center for—"

"' _-lost manuscripts, arcane subjects and all things obscure_.' Alright, alright!" Nora chuckled, cutting Hermione off before she could launch into a fully prepared rant about the importance of her work. "Just eat your cake before you go upstairs. It'll do you good, especially on a nippy day like today." She patted Hermione lightly on the cheek before shuffling back to her counter.

Hermione sighed. Nora had caught her in the middle of an episode in early September, when she had her first blackout. She had been coming through the shop after closing, carrying her shopping, and had just unlocked the door to the back stairs when it hit her. A sudden, throbbing stab at her temples had sent her reeling, and the shopping bags dropped from her hands as she collapsed against the doorframe. She had awoken in her bed upstairs with Nora and Jenna hovering anxiously above her, and had not been able to shake their concerns until some time had passed.

Now she sat in her booth, idly stirring her tea. The headaches were getting worse, that much was certain. She had never seen the black spots before, nor had a voice ever cut to the core of her head so easily. Sensitivity to noise was something she expected these days, what with the constant ache in her temples, but nothing had ever triggered it that badly before.

 _Malfoy_ , was it? He had a distinctly standoffish air about him, come to think of it. The way he looked down his straight nose with grey eyes that seemed to cut through the air, the way his lip had curled at the sound of her name, all of it screamed of unpleasant character. There was no question that he was handsome, with his aristocratic features, pale hair, and the way he filled out his suit…Hermione shuddered, mentally slapping herself. _He probably knows it_ , _too_. She sniffed, and brought her tea up to her mouth. _Definitely knows it. Cocky bastard_. _But he has to be pretty clever to make Mr. Craggins take him at Wheedles, especially without papers or recommendations…_

Hermione groaned inwardly. That was certainly going to be a problem. How could she face him again after acting like such a complete nutter? She'd dropped to the floor, practically had a seizure, skipped out on her work and fled from the shop, all after only seeing his face! How would he view her, then? She flopped down in her seat, resting her head on the table. She would be a laughingstock. Mr. Craggins would never forgive her, surely. She'd be trying to make it up to him for the rest of her days.

She looked up, exasperated, to see Nora squinting over at her from behind the counter. Hermione quickly righted herself and tucked in to the cake, smiling up rather frantically at Nora between mouthfuls. Nora, thankfully, seemed satisfied with Hermione's enthusiasm and moved on to her next customer. Hermione practically inhaled the cake, collected her coat, and rushed to the back stairs without a second glance out the window.

If she had looked back, however, she would have seen a pale young man with shocking blond hair vanish into the darkness outside the window with a faint _pop_. Nora, on the other hand, did see. She shook her head, chuckling.

"Young Master Malfoy never was one for subtlety."

* * *

 **Hello, and welcome to _Oblivisci_! I should be posting about once a week until the fic is finished.**  
 **Please review!**


	3. Chapter 2

Rising early was never a problem for Hermione before the headaches. For as long as she could remember, which wasn't all that long, Hermione had risen with the sun. She preferred her mornings to herself, accompanied only by a strong cup of tea and a book.

Now, it was torture. Each morning was a new trial, and each struggle felt like it might be her last. The burn in her head felt like it would split her in two, and her body ached like she had fought battles in her sleep. Part of it was the dreams. Hermione never could remember them when she woke, but their vividness left her breathless.

It was during these quiet mornings that Hermione often mused about her past. Being a girl who prided herself on knowing at least something about almost everything (working in an exotic bookshop had its perks) nothing irked her more than the blankness that afflicted her own mind. She had vague memories of growing up, and being sent to school, but she had learned early on not to force her memories. Within seconds of attempting to access her memories, the blackness would envelop her and headaches would plague her for days.

Having read extensively on the subject of amnesia, Hermione knew hers was retrograde. She had lost all her memories before the eighth of May last year, but had no problems retaining her memories since that day. All of her basic skills, such as speech and literacy, had been retained, and she had foggy ideas rather than actual recollections of her early childhood. Even her own name had come with a price; she had been bedridden with a migraine for three days after pulling "Hermione" out of the recesses of her mind. No surname, just Hermione and a headache. She wasn't even sure it was her own name, but it resonated with her more strongly than any other memory she could dredge up ever had. The "Doe" she had tacked on later, like an afterthought. It seemed only logical, she reasoned, that a mostly-Jane-Doe should be named like one. And Hermione Doe, she mused, was as good a name for a girl who worked in a bookshop as any.

Hermione sighed as she poured hot water into her mug. She would never forget the day she had come to her senses. Mr. Craggins had been the first one to pay her any notice when she had appeared in London, staggering down the middle of the street, covered in blood and dirt without any idea of who she was. He had ushered her quickly into his shop, sat her down, and wrapped her in a blanket. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them that night, and when she woke the next morning he was waiting for her with a damp towel and the address of a landlady with rooms to let.

Hermione had sought him out after a week, shuffling into the shop with the towel in hand. She was silent, unsure how to begin, when Mr. Craggins barked at her.

"Don't stand there like a ninny. There's work to be done." And he shuffled into the stockroom. Hermione had not seen that kindness from her employer again, only gruff dissatisfaction with the occasional grunt in her direction.

Not that she wasn't grateful—Wheedles and Budgery had saved Hermione. As she struggled from day to day, her time spent in the sprawling store had become her lifeline. She filled the gaping void in her mind with knowledge, devouring Plato and guide books and Tolkein and biographies alike until she could ignore the fractures in her memory. Hermione lived for the day that Mr. Craggins would realize her potential and have her begin work on a research project, tracking down a rumored manuscript or compiling sources on an eccentric topic. The establishment was, after all, driven by research, which delighted Hermione to no end. Mark would always say that knowledge was what made her hair so frizzy, but she didn't mind. She was sure that there was a book to answer everything.

Her recent forays into the Medicine section at Wheedles had been aimed at finding the cause of her amnesia, and these days she was wading through a seemingly endless stream of diagnoses. There was head trauma, emotional trauma, drug overdose, dementia or even stroke, and then the even longer list of ailments listed in the rarer tomes of the Wheedles and Budgery collection. An imbalance of the humours, blood in the brain, a touch by the evil eye or even a curse—her list was getting longer and more ridiculous by the day. Hermione knew she could only get so far without knowing her past or even her medical history, but still she searched in the dusty shelves of Wheedles and Budgery and the medical journals Nora ordered for her at the Tea Room.

Finishing her tea, Hermione made her way to the bathroom to wash up for the day. She paused at the mirror and gave herself the once-over, making a catalogue of her features and paying particular attention to her complexion. Usually she felt her face became notably puffy the day after an episode (though she couldn't seem to convince Nora or Jenna of this, for both women blamed it on vanity) but today she was pleased. Bushy hair, small nose, pert mouth, honey eyes and a normally-sized heart-shaped face. _Not too bad at all, Hermione_ , she thought, as she worked a comb through her rioting curls. Feeling lighter than she had in weeks, Hermione picked out her favorite jeans and a cozy wool jumper, then tucked her feet into comfortable flats and wrapped a scarf around her neck as she waltzed out the door.

She was practically skipping as she made her way down the back stairs, though she had to contain her good mood as the thud of the last step brought an answering throb to her temples. She made her way sedately out to Nora, who had Hermione's usual morning fare waiting on the counter, and Hermione retrieved her scone and tea, then frowned as she felt the cold cup that clearly wasn't tea at all.

"What's this, Nora?" she asked, trying not to pout, as she sniffed at the cup's spicy contents.

"Pumpkin juice!" Nora boomed across the tea room as she leaned over a young woman in a beret. "I thought I'd try something new, seeing as it's Fall and pumpkin is so popular with you young people. Why don't you try it? It won't hurt to change for a day, and I don't want caffeine adding to your headaches now." She smiled distractedly at Hermione then bustled off hurriedly to the couple at the counter.

Hermione smiled reassuringly at Nora but looked doubtfully at the cloudy orange liquid. "Pumpkin juice?" she said haltingly, and sipped, trying to keep her face impassive. No, this definitely wasn't tea, but she was surprised to find that she didn't dislike it. The spiced juice cooled her throat and eased the throbbing in her head slightly, making her think of warm fires and feasts.

She shook herself out of her reverie and waved over her shoulder at Nora as she made her way into the brisk morning air. Wheedles and Budgery was only a few short blocks away and she marched hurriedly towards the shop, head down, the wind snatching at her curls, mixing in comfortably with the crowd of early morning London commuters. The door to the bookshop wheezed on its hinges as she shuffled inside, smiling apologetically at Mr. Craggins when he glanced up and winced at her over his copy of _Flora and Fauna of the Dead Sea, Volume VII_ by Exeter C. Prachett.

"Miss Doe." He spoke through pursed lips. "If you presume—"

"Please Mr. Craggins, I'll get to work right away. Reshelving all day." She spoke hurriedly, hiding her scone behind her back and sidestepping away from Mr. Craggins' glare. "I'll work through lunch, and more than make up for yesterday, I just—" she was almost to the small staircase now. "I just needed an afternoon! I'll get started right now, thank you for understanding!" She fled up the rickety stairs, beet red, and down the narrow hall into the depths of Botany. She would have to face Mr. Craggins for real at some point, but she would happily put it off for as long as she could.

Settling into a window seat to finish her breakfast, Hermione surveyed her day's work. It would take her hours just to finish in Botany, not to mention her abandoned work in Classical Architecture and cleaning up those books she had knocked over when she had fallen down the stairs yesterday… Hermione winced. She had almost forgotten the encounter with that man, Malfoy, but now it came flooding back to her in all its painful and embarrassing detail. "Sure," she muttered, as she eased up off the ledge. " _That_ I remember."

...

Hermione was as good as her word, working straight through her lunch hour and staying hidden among the shelves of the second floor mezzanine until after dark. It wasn't until she heard Mr. Craggin's nasal voice echo up from the ground floor that she emerged, hair bunched in a scrunchy, dust smeared across her chin, a fierce ache from the base of her neck to the tip of her nose, to seek out her employer. She readied herself at the top of the staircase, putting on a look of studied contrition on her face and mussing her hair for extra effect, then paced warily down the stairs.

"Yes, Mr. Craggins?" She looked up to the counter and was confronted not only by the pouchy, pale visage of Mr. Craggins but by Malfoy standing beside him. Malfoy looked amused, in a detached sort of way, and the corner of his mouth curled elegantly into a sneer as he took in her rumpled jumper and dusty face. He, of course, was spotless: well-cut slacks, a stylish dark wool coat, and another pair of absurdly fancy shoes. She tore her eyes away from his Oxfords and looked to Mr. Craggins, who was all furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips.

"Miss Doe, I have asked you here because of these—" he gestured to the stack of files before him "and because of Mr. Malfoy here." Hermione refused to let her eyes to stray from Craggins' counter.

"As I attempted to tell you yesterday, Mr. Malfoy has come to Wheedles and Budgery for the purpose of extensive research into the documents here. Our establishment has the materials he needs to complete the task, and for no modest fee he has unlimited access to our collections that he needs to do the work. Although Wheedles and Budgery may not have the—" here he glanced at her wild hair and the dirt under her fingernails "— _experienced_ staff he may require, I am considering assigning you to the task of assisting him in his research. Mr. Malfoy?"

Malfoy sauntered forward, looking for all the world as if he owned the place. "Miss...Doe, is it?" His low voice drew Hermione's eyes to his mouth, where she stared at the curled lip before what Mr. Craggins had said hit her. A research project! She had been begging, _pleading_ with Mr. Craggins for months now, asking for a research job. Hermione stood, open mouthed. She had put in countless extra hours, spent weeks tracking down obscure lexicons and chasing after lost references to earn a research post, and here it was. Her big break, wearing shiny shoes and a half-formed sneer.

She started, realizing that Malfoy and Mr. Craggins were staring at her oddly. "Oh! Yes. Doe. That's me." She waved lamely.

The pulse on Malfoy's forehead twitched, then he turned and nodded to the enormous stack of papers. "Have you ever heard of the _Electus_ , Miss Doe?" Pulling the first leaflet from the pile, he fanned out the yellowing pages in front of her, and Hermione had a glimpse of cramped notes and typed Latin verse before he snapped them back into his palm.

"No" she admitted, intrigued. She should have felt embarrassed, she supposed, since she had spent all of her free time up on the second-floor mezzanine, surrounded by obscure texts and dusty lexicons for the past year, but instead she felt excited at the prospect of new information. _Electus_ , she mused. _From the Latin, eligo, eligere, elegi, electum_ , _meaning—_

She blinked. Malfoy had paused, looking curiously at her dazed expression. She smiled halfheartedly, but it came out as a wince and Malfoy turned with a sigh to Craggins.

"Are you sure she is...capable?" Malfoy murmured, glancing at Hermione critically out the corner of his eye as he thumbed through the papers in his hands. Hermione watched the words flipping by, seeing pages mapping out her escape from reshelving and spelling an end to her quest to fill the void in her mind, and snapped to attention. Her mind filled with a bristling clarity as she puffed up in anger, her hair practically crackling with intensity, and advanced on the counter.

"Mr. Craggins," she snapped, then tried again more softly at his fierce glare. "Mr. Craggins. Please assign me to Mr. Malfoy's project." He looked unwilling, but Hermione plowed on. "All of your other research librarians are otherwise occupied, and I specialize in this sort of work. I am very well-versed in Latin and Greek, and my familiarity with the rare ancient texts in the Wheedles and Budgery collection is unparalleled. You know I belong on this job. I—" she stopped at the impatient flick of Mr. Craggins' gnarled hand, breathing heavily but not wanting to push her luck.

Mr. Craggins nodded slowly, almost reluctantly, but looked over at Malfoy with a stern expression. "Miss Doe will be your assigned research librarian at Wheedles and Budgery, Mr. Malfoy." He sniffed at the enormous stack of papers on his counter. "She will show you to your study on the second floor. You have the parameters of her duties, and the resources available to you, outlined in your contract." He turned squintily to Hermione. "Miss Doe, please escort the client to room 2C." Mr. Craggins pushed an ancient-looking skeleton key across the counter, then disappeared into the stockroom.

The following silence was uncomfortable, but mercifully brief. It became clear to Hermione that Malfoy, who was making a careful study of the air above her left shoulder, had no intention of carrying the enormous stack of papers up to the study. Muttering to herself about shiny shoes and big-headed aristocrats with more money than sense, Hermione grabbed the pile with as much dignity as she could muster and made for the stairs to room 2C, Malfoy following mutely behind her.

As she climbed, Hermione took stock of her situation, grinning slowly into the papers. Her first research project! She had been working at Wheedles and Budgery for over a year, putting in overtime and answering to Mr. Craggins' every whim, only to watch other employees get promoted ahead of her and have fascinating inquiries snatched out from under her nose. Now, with the prospect of a no-holds-barred investigation into the _Electus_ , whatever it might be, and even with Malfoy as a partner, she felt a new bounce in her step. Even her headache was almost gone, she noted with surprise. It had settled into a low pulse at her temples, barely noticeable after weeks of screaming aches between her ears, and she smiled with grim triumph as she mounted the last step onto the second floor.

She heard Malfoy halt behind her and turned, with some difficulty, in the narrow passage that led from the staircase through the outskirts of Theology. She craned her neck around the now distinctly wobbly stack of _Electus_ materials to find Malfoy looking around rather bewildered at the barely-contained chaos around him; an annotated _Bhagavad Gita_ jutted out just under his nose, and all twelve volumes of Lindheim's _Treatise on Godhood, Part IV_ teetered ominously next to his left hip.

"Yes," she said curtly, and then moved on, stepping neatly over a delicate stack of the _Analects_.

"Yes what?" Malfoy asked, his voice muffled as he sidled past a particularly off-balance bookcase, held up only by a step stool that looked to be made of papier mache.

"Yes, it's always like this," Hermione called over her shoulder, sliding the skeleton key easily into the lock and shouldering her way into room 2C. She choked on the sudden cloud of dust and looked around the room through slitted eyes. It seemed comfortable enough, medium-sized with large leather armchairs, a low worktable, and a fireplace in the corner. Empty bookshelves—Hermione gaped, she had never seen _empty_ bookshelves at Wheedles and Budgery before—lined two walls, waiting to be filled with the fruits of their search. _It's perfect_ , Hermione thought, easing her way into the study and setting the papers down on a side table to an answering puff of dust.

A few moments later Malfoy stumbled into the room looking distinctly ruffled and broke Hermione's examination of the study, regaining his composure just enough to frown at the layer of dust. He wrinkled his nose and, sneering slightly, looked back at the way they'd come.

"You know, I really should speak to your manager; I highly doubt that hallway is in accordance with fire code regulations." He sniffed haughtily, flicking at unseen spot of grime sticking to his wool coat before settling uneasily into a high backed chair.

Hermione smiled wryly at the back of Malfoy's platinum head and went to fetch a feather duster.

* * *

 **Eligo, eligere, elegi, electum (v): to choose (Latin)**

 **Please review!**


	4. Chapter 3

The night was crisp and Hermione tucked her scarf more firmly around her chin, her flats squeaking slightly in the wet leaves. Her back ached, but for once it was from sitting hunched over a desk instead of hefting endless tomes over her head, and she smiled quietly to herself. Malfoy was an odd character, with abrupt manners and an overarching air of superiority, and Hermione still couldn't quite shake the feeling that he disliked her, but she had never felt so satisfied.

 _Once the room had been deemed "passable" by Malfoy—a process that took no less than three feather dusters, a box of Wet Wipes, the theft of several tall lamps from Memoirs and almost all of Hermione's elbow grease—Hermione was finally allowed to go through the stack of materials deposited on the side table._

 _It was a mess, really, all hand-typed notes and sheafs of crumpled papers with annotations and Latin and nonsense words crammed into the margins. There was one annotator—he wrote in a cramped, spidery scrawl almost exclusively in red ink—that had been so enthusiastic in his note-taking that he had nearly obscured all of the original text on three separate pages. Some previous owners had left doodles, mostly inane geometric designs, and one potentially explicit cartoon that made Hermione blush when she held the paper just so. There were lists, too; references to some volumes that she knew were in the Wheedles and Budgery collection, and others they would have to order or track down from other establishments._

" _So—curious yet?" Malfoy had gotten tired of being ignored in his chair and scowled impatiently as Hermione pored over the pile of documents. Hermione looked up, sheepish._

" _I have to confess that I am." Hermione admitted. "What exactly is this, Malfoy? It's not a single source, it's in about ten different languages—it's not even alphabetized! You said it was called the_ Electus _but I don't see a single document that has that title..." Hermione trailed off. She could see the work piling up before her eyes and smiled internally. She loved a good organizing project._

" _The_ Electus _is not here." Malfoy snapped from his chair, then rose to hover snidely beside the table. "Rather, these are the documents that have been collected by connoisseurs and scholars and fanatics over the years in the hope of locating it. Within these pages is—or should be—the key to the location of the_ Electus _." He thumbed at the pages absentmindedly, then fixed Hermione with a silver stare as if waiting for her to contradict him. She shivered slightly under the cold weight of his gaze, a shiver thrilling across her shoulders and settling in her stomach, then forced her eyes back to the documents strewn across the table._

" _So it's a lost work, then! How fascinating!" Hermione worked to keep her voice even, trying to focus her energy on cataloguing everything she had ever read about the study of rare and lost materials and not the liquid depths of Malfoy's eyes and the slight turn at the corner of his mouth…_

Focus, Hermione! _She had heard of lost works in her work at Wheedles and Budgery, like Shakespeare's_ Love's Labour's Won _, or Nicander's_ Heteroeumena _; Mr. Craggins held a deep-seated obsession for the Anglo-Saxon epic poem_ Waldere _, which had resulted in a wild-goose chase for Hermione to a collection of rare texts in Devon that, when translated, had turned out to be an excellent recipe for chicken fricassee._

" _So what is it? A poem? A history?" Hermione's mind was racing._

" _Well, that's the thing, Doe." Malfoy smirked, settling on the far end of the table and drumming his fingers on the edge. "No one seems to be able to agree on what it is, since nothing exists other than references. Some say it's a map, others say it's some sort of epic, still others think it's just a metaphor. One source even says it's the key to ridding the world of evil." His mouth twisted with contempt. "The one thing they can all agree on is that, if found, it would be a source of great power."_

" _A metaphor, huh?" Hermione mumbled. She smelled a wild-goose chase. But—"Wait, did you say great power?"_

 _Malfoy sneered elegantly. "Feeling ambitious are you? How unexpected." He traced a long finger around the edge of the nearest sheaf of parchment. "Well you'd better hope that you're cut out for it, since it's written—in fact, it's that one right under your left thumb, Doe" Hermione pulled out the piece in question, one of the more enthusiastically annotated documents, onto the top of her pile "—that this power is something only certain people can comprehend." His mouth twisted slightly, then grew thoughtful. "But power is what you make of it, isn't it?" He frowned and turned away, leaving Hermione to ponder._

 _She knew it wasn't uncommon for lost works, particularly ones that were shrouded in mystery like this one, to acquire a mythology over time. But for a document to actually possess a great and (potentially) unknowable power? Hermione just didn't buy it. Though—she looked at Malfoy, who was now bent over a second stack of documents—it seemed that Malfoy, through all his snobbish affectations, did. A collection like this, with all its compiled sources, lists of references, and extensive note-taking, was a sign of scholarly devotion and dogged conviction that could rival Hermione's own._

 _A thought occurred to her. "How did you come to study the_ Electus _, Malfoy? You've obviously studied the files quite thoroughly, but these documents seem to be a collection different scholars made over the course of years, or even decades! Forgive me, but it doesn't seem to be just your work." She flipped through the pages, considering at least five different styles of handwriting, and an idea came to her. "Is it a family tradition?"_

 _Malfoy straightened abruptly. "Don't be ridiculous." He glared at Hermione. "This" he sneered at the papers strewn across the table "is my inheritance."_

Hermione shivered into her scarf, wrapping her arms around herself, and made a mental note to put family on the "Tread Lightly" list. At least she had been spared too much awkwardness since Malfoy had left soon after her accidental faux pas, citing a vague "business to attend to" and sweeping out of the room without a backwards glance. Hermione had then thrown herself into the _Electus_ documents, but soon she was blinking at her watch and grabbing for her scarf, having spent the afternoon and much of the evening in a hazy trance of reading.

The bell of the Tea Room tinkled wearily and Hermione glanced at the counter as she passed. Nora was not there, but there was a large slice of treacle tart on a plate with a note that read, _Long days deserve sweets. -N_

Hermione smiled as she picked up the treat, determined to enjoy it with a cup of chamomile in her flat, and made her way through the darkened restaurant to the back stairs. The old key _snick_ ed into the lock and she eased quietly through, padding up the stairway and down the narrow hallway. Dim yellow light filtered through the window at the end of the passage, dust motes drifting listlessly in its the shadows, to illuminate the bronze knob to Hermione's door and the ornate gilded picture frame across from it. Hermione stopped, realizing that Nora must have done some interior decorating while she had been out.

Across from Hermione's blank doorfront Nora had installed a large and imposing still-life of what in the near-darkness seemed to be an overflowing bowl of pink peonies. The painting was impossibly large, nearly the size of Hermione's own door, and incredibly detailed. It was as if the artist had decided to paint an ode to the bulbous blossoms; they fell across the foreground like the skirts of an impossibly full ballgown, cresting and folding like so much taffeta, and arced up over the bowl to form an ample bust. Hermione smiled. In this light, if she squinted and craned her neck to the side, she could almost make out a face in the upper right-hand corner.

 _It will be nice to have someone just outside my door_ , she mused absently, and set about making her cup of tea.

…

Malfoy was laughing at her, Hermione was sure of it. Barely two weeks into this blasted project and he already thought she was useless.

Well, not useless perhaps. But... _amusing_.

Hermione wound her way through Cryptozoology, trying to think when it had all started. She had been endlessly polite, even unnecessarily so, fetching books and taking dictation and copying every nonsensical note he gave her, but none of her memorized facts or civil smiles could wipe that bedamned _smirk_ off Malfoy's absurdly pale face. It didn't help that he appeared to sense her budding attraction to him, either. Malfoy always seemed like to have an inside joke with himself and Hermione always seemed to be the punchline. Last week it had been her name.

 _She was thumbing through the pages of_ Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science _without absorbing a word, her mind drifting over the way Malfoy's shirt had been open an extra button this morning. The gap had allowed for a tantalizing glimpse of collar bone and had set Hermione to daydreaming, wondering what would happen if she unfastened the next button._

" _Doe._ Doe _." The three letters curled leisurely around his tongue. "What an interesting name."_

 _Hermione hummed her agreement and didn't bother to look up. Malfoy always got bored at this time in the afternoon, 3 pm like clockwork, and Hermione was becoming increasingly skilled at responding without listening._

" _Doe. D-d-doe. Dooooo—" s_ _he could feel the sharp edges of a headache coming on, and each syllable that spilled out of Malfoy's mouth was another knife stuck in her cerebrum._ The subject of a daydream _, she thought,_ should not be permitted to be so annoying in real life _._

" _What about yours, then? Malfoy. Where does that come from?" Hermione hissed through clenched teeth._

" _French," Malfoy sounded bored. "Old family name. Carries a lot of weight in certain circles." He leered at Hermione over his copy of_ New Theory of Numerology _by Lukas Karuzos. "But Doe? Isn't that what m—what they call dead people?" His upper lip curled slightly, baring a dangerously sharp incisor._

" _You're thinking of morticians, and no, not exactly. It's the name for unidentified people—Jane Doe or John Doe, I mean—and they don't have to be dead for it to apply." Hermione snapped, feeling the heat rise in her face. One pointer finger traced across the surface of a crisp page, following the spidery lines of Da Vinci's_ Vitruvian Man, _the other rubbed small circles at her temple._ _She always tried to wear her surname like a badge of honor, bearing her anonymity and autonomy with equal measures of pride and loneliness, but somehow Malfoy managed to make her feel unsure. Suddenly "Doe" was a synonym for shame, a black mark on her person, and Hermione shrank away from its stain._

 _Malfoy's eyes narrowed as if sensing that he'd touched a nerve. "And that just happens to be your family name?" He smirked as if he already knew the answer._

" _No" Hermione bit out. The headache was truly coming on now, and Hermione cursed as she noticed the encroaching foggy black around the sides of her vision. "I don't know my name. All I've got is a first name, and it might not even be real." Her chest was tight. It felt like the black was pouring up through her throat to clog her vision, spikes of forgotten memories stabbing into her consciousness._

" _What's your name then." He paused, and the blackness filled the space he left between his words. "Hermione?"_

 _When she came around, her face was sticking to the pages of_ Alchemy, Ancient Art and Science. _Malfoy was hovering beside her, his face a mixture of disgust and—was it concern? Hermione batted in front of her face, trying to clear away the cloud of black spots that hovered at the tip of her nose, and Malfoy leaped back as one hand came dangerously close to his cheek._

" _You have fascinating study habits, Doe." He sneered lazily, settling back into his chair. "I now understand how you've managed to contribute_ so _much to our research."_

Since that day Malfoy had treated Hermione with a wary and scathing indifference, focusing his efforts instead on (what Hermione interpreted as) a concentrated effort to find evidence of her incompetence and disqualify her from the research. He drilled her daily in Latin and Greek declensions, prattled at her in flawless French ( _My first language_ , he'd said. _Let's see if you can keep up._ She couldn't) and had even begun quizzing her on the growing list of nonsense words they'd accumulated from the margins of the _Electus_ papers. Thankfully, however, he was keeping the War On Hermione Doe's Intellect Just For The Sake Of Pettiness between the two of them.

On Monday morning Hermione arrived at Wheedles and Budgery feeling tired but confident. She had worked ceaselessly over the weekend, even trying to enlist Nora's help as a study partner (which had been an entirely useless endeavor, for as soon as Hermione had started listing off nonsense words Nora had become inexplicably busy,) but she was certain that she had the list well in hand. She could handle Malfoy. She was even wearing her good-luck cardigan.

Hermione strode in the front door at 10:55, ready for her 11:00 appointment with Malfoy in the study, but was stopped fully in her tracks by the sight that waited for her. _What fresh hell was this?_

Instead of arriving at 11:15 like he usually did, Malfoy was already seated just inside the foyer, looking for all the world like a long-suffering slave to research. He gave her a baleful look, sighed theatrically, and gestured listlessly to twelve new books for Hermione to carry to the study. Mr. Craggins observed the scene with disapproval, tutting at Hermione's "lateness" from the doorway to the stockroom, and Malfoy, the cad, had the audacity to _wink_ at her over his shoulder. Her eyes narrowed. Malfoy had a new scheme, she was sure of it. Gritting her teeth, she accepted the stack of books without comment and followed his black woolen coat tails up the staircase.

Not a word was mentioned about the Nonsense List all week. Of course.

Instead, Malfoy continued to show up frequently and dramatically, and it quickly became clear to Hermione that this was the next step in the Campaign To Make Hermione Doe Look Bad and Make Everyone Else Suffer In The Process. He was everywhere: in the study, muttering darkly in Greek; in the stacks, reshelving books in the wrong order; he even showed up one day behind the counter to stare eerily at customers as they left with their purchases. He began looking increasingly haggard, dragging himself about the premises scribbling notes and nibbling on the ends of Hermione's favorite pencil.

And, much to Hermione's chagrin and quiet rage, people around the bookshop began to notice. Mr. Craggins started glaring at her every time he saw her, muttering under his breath about _time wasters_ and _misuse of resources_. One of the researchers in Cryptography _tsk_ ed ominously at Hermione over his spectacles when she scattered a pile of Malfoy's notes in her attempt to fetch _Codes for Commoners: Deciphering the Words of the Rich and Powerful_. A middle-aged woman browsing in Advanced Mathematics looked so concerned that she stopped Malfoy and offered him a battered package of biscuits from her purse.

Malfoy spent the afternoon smirking and getting crumbs everywhere. Hermione vowed to stuff her good-luck cardigan in the back of the closet until it learned some manners.

It wasn't just the mornings, either; Malfoy began spending his evenings in Wheedles and Budgery, too. He hovered as Hermione restacked maps of Atlantis, spent hours munching noisily on Jammy Dodgers in the corner of the study, and foraged for the most ridiculous and unrelated tomes in the Wheedles and Budgery collection to deposit on Hermione's desk, all in the name of "background reading."

It was the extra reading that bogged Hermione down the most, and she despised Malfoy for it. She was now bringing home at least two supplemental volumes a day, falling asleep at her desk almost every night, and she was having an increasingly hard time remembering what she had read when she woke up. The headaches threatened to consume her. She had begun to avoid the stacks of books on her desk, to shy away from her shelves, and she blamed Malfoy for all of it. How _dare_ he make her resent reading? It was too much.

By the Friday following her episode, Hermione had had enough. As the newest stack of drivel _whump_ ed onto her desk, she shot up out of her chair. A momentary look of surprise crossed Malfoy's face before he hid it behind his shocking blondness, squinting at Hermione down his aristocratic nose.

Hermione faltered. She had never stood this close to Malfoy before—there had always been at least a desk or a stack of leather-bound books between them—and found she had to tip her head back rather foolishly to glare into his eyes. _Next time,_ she noted wryly, _make a stand from higher ground._

"Malfoy," she sounded squeaky. Again, "Malfoy!" Much better. "This has to stop! All this extra work, it's taking up too much time—time I could be spending on the _Electus_ documents! I'm already taking my evenings to go through the supplementary readings, plus bringing work home for translation. If it needs to be done, you should be doing it yourself." She tried to look imperious.

Malfoy only stared at her, his mouth twisting with amusement as a nearly-transparent eyebrow quested towards his hairline.

"I mean honestly, Malfoy. I don't have the time! I know you're eccentric, but" she ran her fingers down the spines of the books on her desk. " _Water Plants of the Highland Lochs_? _Omens, Oracles & the Goat_? What gives you the right—"

All traces of amusement drained from Malfoy's face. He leaned down to her ear and Hermione froze. They had _definitely_ never been this close before. She smelled peppermint.

His breath ghosted across her cheekbone, surprisingly warm, and Hermione felt a thrill down her spine as she breathed him in. It was a surprisingly intimate moment, there among the dusty books and scattered pages, and Hermione was dizzy with the thrill of it. She thought hopefully of the glimpse of collarbone, and his devastating smirk—then he spoke.

"The _right_?" His voice cut with a serrated edge across her cheek. "Do you think I'm being unfair?" Hermione wanted to move, to run, but he had her trapped against the desk.

"I don't think you understand just how fair I'm being, Miss Doe." He hissed, the icy words dripping from his mouth to shatter on the floor. "These materials—which I am providing, by the way, specifically to bring you, my _assistant_ " he spat out the word as if its taste were hateful, "up to speed—are being procured with no small effort by myself and others. Although it may be a joke to you, the _Electus_ is real to us." He was visibly angry now, the muscles in his neck corded and taught like strings ready to be plucked. "I am partnered with you out of necessity. So the next time you feel that I am being unfair, Miss Doe, I suggest you remember what this is costing me."

He stepped back and his face was thrown into high relief in the lamplight, a rude flush smeared across his cutting cheekbones, his eyes burned like burried ore in shaddowed sockets. He inhaled sharply through his nose and closed his eyes, head tilted back as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Malfoy was a vision of barely controlled anger, Hermione thought. Like a sheet of ice over a volcano. For the first time since their meeting, Hermione thought she saw hate lurking behind the mockery in his face.

Then a nasty smile spread snaked across his mouth and his eyes snapped open, flitting from Hermione's face to the stacks of books on her desk and back again.

"It has occurred to me that your mornings would be much better spent here, working, as opposed to your taking so many valuable materials home every night. I think it would be much more" he paused, " _p_ _rofitable_ if you had a longer exposure to the material during the day. That way your evenings are your own. I know how much you like to sleep, that much was made evident to me last week." He winked cruelly. "This is your only option. I'd hate to have to renegotiate my contract with Mr. Craggins." He swept to the doorway, then turned.

"I'll be in early, if you decide you have the time to actually pursue this research." And he was gone. Hermione was left to hyperventilate and then, as she breathed more deeply, to seethe.

She began to pace, her turns in the tight space whipping up a small tornado and sweeping papers off the desk. He had completely missed the point! How could he accuse her of not being dedicated? A throb had begun between Hermione's eyebrows but she barely noticed, channeling the pain to feed her anger. It was obvious that Malfoy was trying to prove his superiority and dominance to make her abandon the _Electus_ , and she couldn't let it slide.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. Who was this "us" he referred to? The other annotators? " _Connoisseurs and scholars and fanatics"_ he'd called them. It made it seem like this research was much larger than Malfoy himself. She decided to tuck that thought away for later.

It was clear that she was not his ideal research partner; she was no "connoisseur" of the _Electus_ to be sure. But couldn't he see that she was trying? They already spent at least nine hours a day together, for heaven's sake. And now he wanted her to spend the mornings with him, too! Hermione stopped. From the way he had acted, that seemed to be the exact opposite of what Malfoy wanted. He seemed repulsed by her, the way he sneered and spat at her. _I am partnered with you out of necessity_. What an arse!

And furthermore, how dare he bring up the amount of money he was paying for her services? Hermione winced. Phrasing it like that made her sound like an intellectual prostitute.

He was challenging her, trying to make her feel incompetent and useless with all his superior knowledge and stupid fluency in French. If she had to listen to him eat another biscuit she'd scream! How _dare_ he try to intimidate her? And then make it seem like it was her fault? All this posturing and throwing his weight around had to stop.

Hermione smiled grimly. She would just have to out-swot him.

* * *

 **What exactly is the _Electus_? Tensions rise as the research starts.**

 **Please review!**


	5. Chapter 4

It was never supposed to take this long.

When he'd been given the assignment, they'd assured him that he would be there for a month. Five weeks at most. Now Draco looked out of the small window of the study, frowning, and counted the days. Fractured fingers of ice worked their way up the thick pane of glass, diffusing the light from the yellowing streetlamp outside. He had been at Wheedles and Budgery nearly two months now and had nothing to show for it.

He scowled, glancing over at Granger, and popped a biscuit into his mouth. She was muttering to herself as usual, lost in the trance of rote memorization. Piles of notes lay before her and her foot tapped anxiously as she sucked on the end of a pencil. Was she like this at school? He could remember seeing her in the library, surrounded by all her books and Potty and the Weasel and an air of swotty superiority, but he didn't remember the muttering.

Draco rolled his eyes. _Merlin_ but Granger was thick.

He'd been sure that this would work. It was all there, in the documents, waiting to be found—he'd put it there himself.

 _She'll find it_ , they'd said. _Just get it done quickly_ , they'd said. But it seemed that Granger's famed intelligence was buried even deeper than the _Electus_.

In the beginning he'd enjoyed it. The knowing. The feeling of complete power over Granger had been intoxicating—and she'd had no idea. He'd spent a few weeks tormenting her, and it had been delicious to watch her squirm. To hold her ignorance over her. But she'd had no idea.

That was October.

Now December was coming to a close, and Draco had never resented Granger more. She was his first assignment, for Salazar's sake, and it was like babysitting a child. A waspish, bitter, thick-as-a-brick, barely-better-than-a-Muggle, nasty little child. Who was still an insufferable swot. And had a proclivity for pretentiousness and wearing tight jumpers.

Like she could hear his thoughts, Granger looked up. Holding her gaze, Draco narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue over his upper lip, collecting crumbs. Granger glared for several long moments, a flush creeping up her neck, but was drawn inexorably back into her reading. Thank Merlin he'd thought to put compulsion charms on that list. He didn't think he could stand her looking at him like that.

And his superiors were breathing down his neck. And she had such slim ankles. And the headaches sometimes knocked her out. Draco took another biscuit.

That was another thing—these "headaches." _Yeah, right_. Nobody had told him she would be having bloody _seizures_. Just last Thursday, he'd left a scrap of parchment on her desk—innocuous enough, with the four House animals in a little cluster—and she had passed out on the spot. He'd let himself feel offended for an entire minute before the exasperation sunk in. How inconvenient of her. And he couldn't even _enervate_ her back to consciousness. They'd been very clear about that. _Granger's mind is under enough strain already. One more spell could break it._

Someone had to snap Granger out of it, and it was clear that she was going to make Draco do all the work. Obviously. Even with her brain in pieces, Granger was impossible.

So he spent his days in the study, working beside Granger and studying his books on enchantments of the mind. He drilled her in memory exercises. He wove subliminal spells into the texts she read. He doodled in her margins. He avoided looking at her ankles. And how did she thank him?

Granger was asking him a question. She should be studying, for Merlin's sake!

"Nope." He hoped she'd go back to work.

Draco took another biscuit and considered his options. They'd be wanting another report soon. He had to produce some results, and fast.

Granger was nattering at him again.

Maybe a change of scenery would do the bint good. Just a quick summoning charm to his pocket and—

"Doe, how do you feel about Scotland?"

…

The back of her neck prickled and she glanced up, feeling Malfoy's eyes on her. He licked his lips, the cad. She considered a snide remark, but thought better of it. She really should be studying, even if he was determined to waste his time.

 _Accio, anapneo, aparecium, ascendio…_ Hermione recited, the tension building in the back of her skull, so much so that she felt a slight tingle in her fingers like little electrical shocks.

Absurdly, the straight memorization of the Nonsense List had been the hardest for her, and almost always ended in frustrated binge tea-drinking and a screaming headache. But she plowed on. No way was she going to let the Nonsense List defeat her.

Ever since Malfoy's stunts two weeks ago, Hermione had been seized by a feverish determination. She had picked up a _Le Petit Larousse_ from the bookshop two streets over (Mr. Craggins didn't believe in stocking the modern languages in his shop, saying they promoted silliness and bad haircuts) and begun rising to the challenge when Malfoy snarked at her in French. Her grammar had earned her a bemused half-sneer last Wednesday when she'd told him exactly where he could put _Year With the Yeti_. Hermione considered it a sound victory.

Now she had moved on to her ever-growing list of gibberish, and Hermione recited the Nonsense List (alphabetized, of course) every chance she got. She muttered over her morning pumpkin juice— _engorgio, episkey, evanesco—_ chanted as she reshelved over the weekends— _langlock, legilimens, levicorpus, lumos—_ and even found herself practicing as she brushed her teeth— _tarantallegra, tergeo—_ only stopping when foam sprayed across her mirror.

As the days wore on, she and Malfoy had fallen into a sort of grudging truce. He was still odd, and his smug attitude continued to grate on Hermione, but it was becoming painfully obvious how dedicated he was to their research. Almost two months in and they had doubled the amount of notes on the _Electus_ , plus beginning some of the translation of the older scripts. It turned out that Malfoy was better at Greek than Latin, so they split the work and dived in. Some days were almost pleasant.

For all that he appeared aloof, Hermione could tell that Malfoy was highly intelligent. Brilliant, even. She found herself becoming increasingly distracted, mesmerized, watching his long fingers as he turned a page or his tongue smoothed over his lower lip. She was even becoming attracted to the sight of Jammy Dodgers, which was ridiculous. Did she _want_ ants?

Hermione sighed, looking over her notes. There was yet another word that she just couldn't make sense of, even with her trusted Latin dictionary at hand, which had never failed her before. It came in three volumes, for heaven's sake! The word was written in a tight hand, scrawled rudely into the margin.

"Malfoy, can you check your lexicon?" Hermione said wearily. "The Latin script is _c-o-l-l-o-p-o-r-t-u-s_. Maybe it's under _kappa_?"

"Nope."

"You didn't even look!"

"Doe, how do you feel about Scotland?"

It was such a non sequitur that Hermione was sure she had heard wrong.

"Scotland, Malfoy? No, I was asking you to look in your _lexicon_." He scowled at her, thin light falling from the window across his face and making his features absurdly pointed. "It's right there by your elbow, could you just—"

"I think it's time we went to Scotland."

He whipped out a small piece of parchment from the pocket of his suit jacket, grinning smugly at the instant hungry look on Hermione's face. She could see a short list of numbers in Malfoy's familiar tight hand. Coordinates? Then she frowned, suspicion tugging at her.

"Where did you get that?" A brief emotion flashed across his eyes—guilt?—before he looked away. A sneer twisted his lips as his fingers traced around the paper.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. She smelled a snake.

"I don't have to share all my resources with you, Doe." His voice was haughty but his cheeks were traitors, a slow flush spreading across the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbones.

Hermione stood slowly and began to pace toward Malfoy's seat by the window. "How long have you had coordinates for Scotland, Malfoy?"

He paused, pretending to consider.

"Malfoy" her voice was soft the way a hurricane is. "Have you had them this the whole time?"

His silence was damning. She lunged for the fragment but Malfoy was out of his seat before she could blink, recovering quickly at her sudden outburst and waving the parchment in his fingers.

"Now now, Doe." His tone was mocking but his eyes were wary. "That's no way to treat a valuable document."

Hermione snorted loudly, and stretched her hand out towards the parchment. Malfoy considered her for a moment, then suddenly and improbably he began to laugh. Hermione stared. _Has he lost the plot?_

"Pack your bags, Doe!" He wheezed. "It's time to get some results."

…

Malfoy, Hermione decided, was a freak. A no-good, manuscript-hiding, smirk-wearing, fancy-shoes-that-never-get-muddy-owning freak.

She just knew he was enjoying this.

"Malfoy, why are we here? It's the middle of nowhere!" They had taken a train from London that morning and were now plodding through soggy turf some eight kilometers north-northeast of the nearest railway station.

Well, Hermione was plodding. Malfoy stood perched on a large stone, jutting out above the gorse bushes and surveying the scenery like a pale and pointy king. He squinted importantly at the parchment in his hand and Hermione rolled her eyes. She had sneaked a glance at the parchment this morning on the train and found the list of numbers to be the timetable for their train to Scotland.

They were lost, she just knew it.

"Do you even know where we're going?" She had to raise her voice to carry over the wind that whipped across the moor and scowled. Of course Malfoy would choose the coldest day this year to trek across half of northern Scotland.

"I found a new reference. It mentioned a library in this area—you do like libraries, don't you, Doe?" He looked completely unconcerned, wrapped as he was in an enormous black woolen coat and an emerald scarf. "If my calculations are correct, our destination should be just over the crest of that hill."

He pointed imperiously from his perch and Hermione had the sudden urge to giggle. Sometimes, she thought, it seemed like Malfoy was from another world. With his black coat billowing around him, hair tousled by highland wind and his striking features nearly translucent in the weak afternoon sunlight, he looked ethereal. Beautiful and strange, a dark smudge against the wet green and brown of the moor.

Something skittered across the surface of her memory but was gone as soon as she tasted it. Metal in her mouth.

Hermione realized with a start that while she had been staring at Malfoy, he had been staring at her. His eyes were shining and the Scottish air seemed to have softened his features; for once he looked at her without a twisted sneer, his wind-whipped cheeks stained with color, a look of quiet anticipation on his face. He was serene, a king returned to his kingdom.

"Come on," he stepped off the rock and paced steadily into the wind without looking back. Hermione squelched wetly in her rubber boots and scowled, then followed Malfoy up the hill. He leaped from stone to stone, his jumps becoming more enthusiastic as he neared the top. Hermione had a hard time watching her feet on the muddy hillocks, nearly cracking her head open on one of Malfoy's stepping stones.

To her surprise, Malfoy stretched his arms out wide, letting the wind whip his coat open and snatch at his white blond hair. He was a wild thing, standing there on the hill, and Hermione felt a thrill of anticipation as she rounded the final boulder. He was grinning at her in triumph.

"What do you think of my library, Doe?"

He gestured grandly, and Hermione looked at last into the valley before her. They were standing on a steep slope overlooking a massive black lake, its surface churning in the stiff winter wind. And beside it...was that a castle?

Hermione gritted her teeth and squinted across the lake, a low throbbing nesting in her ears.

 _Hmmm… Odd._

Every time she looked toward the building she felt her eyes slide across it like oil on water. Was the castle avoiding her? No, that was ridiculous. She swatted the thought away. _Castles can't avoid people, Hermione_.

She blinked and her eyes found the back of Malfoy's head, bobbing in between gorse bushes before it disappeared behind a rocky overhang. He was already a quarter of the way down the slope, making short work of the winding and rocky hillside. She squinted, trying to concentrate as she followed Malfoy down the narrow path.

"Are you sure that's a library, Malfoy? It looks like a ruin to me." Her voice was small. _Was that right?_ She wondered. _A ruin?_ It seemed wrong in her head, like her brain was spitting out gibberish.

"Nonsense, Doe!" He wasn't listening to her, striding gloriously across the field toward the black mass of the castle. Hermione sighed resignedly, and made to follow Malfoy around the edge of the lake.

A few meters across the field and she felt a frisson of anxiety shiver down her spine. Was there something she had forgotten? She stopped, trying to remember, but it eluded her. The anxious feeling subsided slowly, and Hermione picked up her pace to catch up to Malfoy, jogging slightly in the damp grass.

Then, without warning, Hermione felt panic slice across her mind like a whip. She froze, thunderstruck. _How could she have forgotten?_ She had to leave.

A hand caught her wrist as she reached the bottom of the slope and she spun to face Malfoy, his brow furrowed with annoyance.

"What in the name of—where are you going, Doe?"

"Oh god, Malfoy—I completely forgot! I have to go!" Her voice sounded shrill, but she didn't care. Couldn't he see she was in a rush? "I have an incredibly important meeting this afternoon! I'm sorry, but I've got to get back to London at once."

She was a ball of anxiety, consumed by the need to leave this place and go back to London. How could she have forgotten her appointment? Hermione made to turn but Malfoy was still gripping her wrist, staring down at her with a look of dawning horror. Why couldn't Malfoy just let her go? She needed to be back in London, now! Hermione wrenched her arm out of Malfoy's grasp and made it three steps before he was in front of her, blocking her path.

To her utter shock, Malfoy grabbed her face in his hands. His eyes searched hers wildly, silver cutting into brown, and she could feel his hands shake as he gripped her jaw tightly with bony fingers. When he spoke it was like he was trying to keep from shouting by swallowing his own tongue, a strangled and desperate sound crawling up from the depths of his chest.

"Doe. I need you to tell me." He blinked, then swallowed hard. "Can you see the castle?"

Hermione blinked wetly. Wetly? She hadn't realized she was crying. Tears coursed down her face as she stared silently into silver depths, running in rivers over Malfoy's fingers and pooling on the cuffs of his overcoat.

Slowly, painstakingly, almost before she realized it, she shook her head. He held her gaze for a small eternity, breathing heavily, unmoving, then released her face like he'd been burned.

"You should go."

It was all Hermione needed. She turned and dashed up across the moor, not slowing until she was over the crest of the next hill.

* * *

 **At last we hear from Malfoy. No chapter next week, but updates will resume week after next!**

 **Please review!**


	6. Chapter 5

"How could you be so foolish, Malfoy? Do you have any idea what seeing the castle could have done to her?"

"Do _you_?" Draco hissed.

The man—at least Draco thought it was a man, he could never be sure with all this damned secrecy—scowled, the thin line of his mouth twisting grotesquely below the shadowy hood of his cloak. _Honestly_ , Draco thought wryly. _It's like they don't trust me_.

He'd waited three days. Three days since he'd come back from Scotland to make his report on Granger's progress, three days to inform them of her breakdown, and this was precisely why. The wankers wanted to hold him accountable for something, to chew him out, and now he was being scolded like a child. He'd made a judgement call for Merlin's sake. As Granger's supervisor, progressing with a more radical form of treatment was his prerogative.

He said so. The eyeless hood whipped around to face him with what he was sure was disdain.

"The fact that you were bored does not give you the right to expose her to that kind of trauma." The lips beneath the cloak snapped. "The shock could have sent her into a downward spiral, and we would have lost everything we need. She won't hold onto it for much longer." Draco snorted inelegantly. Confused Granger might be, but flaky she was not. He was sure her mind was there somewhere, trapped under layers of enchantment. She was just being obstinate.

The cloaked figure paced back and forth across the dingy room, footsteps silenced in a decade's worth of dust, and Draco decided to try again.

"Just because she couldn't see the castle—"

"Doesn't mean she's a muggle?" the man's voice was mocking. "Of course not, Malfoy. It does mean, however, that her treatment must proceed even more delicately than ever, if we are to extract what we need from her." He stopped his pacing and turned to face Draco. "No more little jaunts into the wizarding world. No more heroics."

"Then what do you suggest I do?" Draco spat, his temper finally rising to the surface. "Hold her hand? Give her bedtime stories to read? I can't spell her, I can't even call her by name—Merlin! She's not going to get any better just sitting in that bookshop, no matter how many spells I put into the books!" He was breathing heavily, but he didn't care. The man in the cloak tilted his head almost imperceptibly, and when he spoke it was not without amusement.

"Well then, Malfoy, I say it's time you got creative. Find some other way to stimulate her mind."

…

Hermione had not left her bed in four days.

At least, that's what Nora had said when Draco asked at the counter of the Tea Room.

"Honestly, I don't know what to do about her." Nora fussed quietly over a fresh pot of Earl Grey. "I let myself in every morning to check on her, like you asked. I clean her bed linens, water her plants and _scourgify_ the dust from the corners but…" Her bosom heaved in a heavy sigh.

"There's been no change?" Draco asked, but Nora's face said it all. Draco frowned.

"Do you think I might have a look myself." He phrased it like a question. It wasn't.

"Of course Master Malfoy, of course." Nora looked pleased to be of assistance, bustling over to the back and unlocking the door to the stairs. "Down the hall and to the left. But of course you already—"

"Thank you, Nora," Draco cut in neatly, easing past her into the tight stairwell. "I'll see myself up."

Granger's apartment was just as he remembered it: small, smelling of cinnamon, and decorated with rather too much yellow. The tiny sitting room was—of course—covered with books, the very cushy armchair and worn loveseat nearly hidden under volumes of every size and subject. The rug, a horrid saffron shag affair, seemed to be devoted to Granger's _Electus_ studies. Draco recognized more than one book he had recommended to Granger, plus a detailed map of Scotland spread out across the floor.

Soft light poured in from a bay window, casting long shadows from the living room into the open kitchen, where an endless parade of mugs waited by the sink. Draco picked his way across the minefield of books and throw pillows to the other end of the room, stopping just outside Granger's bedroom door. He leaned in, closing his eyes as his nose brushed up against the wood. His hand rested against the bronzed handle and Draco allowed himself to hesitate, just for a moment.

Why in Merlin's name had he convinced himself to come here again? He'd only actually been inside once, on a blustery evening in early September. It was his first day on assignment, and he had been waiting for her in the back of the Tea Room, sipping an espresso and watching the door for her arrival.

 _His plan was simple: he would present himself in front of her and recite the counter curse, using both visual and magical stimulus to break the obliviation cast on her two years before. It was clean, quick, and mostly painless, and Draco liked the poetry of it. After all, it only made sense that he'd be the one to break it. He'd been there when the original spell was cast._

 _Draco had no doubt that he would succeed. He'd done the research—obliviation was a speciality of his. There would be just a moment of confusion and then the real Granger would resurface, and he could take her back to them and he'd be rid of her. There was no way they would doubt his loyalty after tonight._

 _At last she came in, her arms filled with shopping and her hair whipped into a frenzy by the late summer wind. He readied himself to confront her, and was just rising to approach her when she turned from unlocking the door and met his eyes. They froze, grey boring holes into brown—_

 _And then she lost it. Completely, bat-shit, fucking_ lost it _._

 _Shopping went everywhere as she dropped to the floor, writhing in what looked to Draco to be unspeakable agony. He glanced down at his wand, still hidden safely in the palm of his hand. Surely he hadn't done this? It looked, for lack of a better comparison, like she was being hit by a silent version of the Cruciatus curse._

 _He took a cautious step forward, and then another, sinking to one knee at her side. He reached for her shoulder and grasped it tightly—_

" _Granger?"_

 _That, it became immediately clear, was the wrong move. Granger's eyes flew open and she let loose a bloodcurdling shriek. She screamed and screamed, her nails clawing at her temples and her feet kicking out towards any part of Draco she could reach._

 _There was a clatter from the kitchen door and Draco was on his feet, pointing his wand at a flour-covered woman with a wand in her left hand and a rolling pin in her right. This had to be Nora, the proprietress of the Tea Room. But a witch? Draco had no idea that the woman was a witch. Nora, on the other hand, didn't seem surprised to see Draco at all._

" _Ah, Master Malfoy. They told me you'd be coming today." She glanced down at Hermione, who was now convulsing violently, having abandoned her screams for soft choking noises. "It seems you've made an impression."_

 _Nora leaned down to Hermione, placing three thick fingers on the girl's neck just below her jaw. Within moments Hermione went limp, sagging into Nora's hand. Draco stared, open mouthed, as the woman rose to her full, if not considerable, height, to fix him with a stony glare._

" _You'll have to carry her, I'm afraid. I can't even leviate her for fear of damage."_

Hermione had been unconscious for almost three days in September, and Draco hadn't left her side. Instead, he owled for his books to be sent to him and he began working furiously through the texts, trying to find what he had missed.

Draco had been sure to leave before she woke, leaving her in the care of Nora and her muggle neighbor. Now he received owled notifications from Nora any time Hermione had an episode, but he made sure not to approach her during them. If that first encounter, and now the incident in Scotland, had taught Draco anything, it was that he made Hermione's episodes worse.

Draco huffed out a sigh against the door. This brought him back to his original question—what in Merlin's name was he doing here, standing outside her bedroom? He had no business meddling with Granger's mind. And yet, _they_ had made it his business.

At first they had been so sure that it would be simple, and so had Draco. But ever since the incident in September, he'd been thrown back to the drawing board. It had taken him until November to solidify the Wheedles and Budgery plan, and when Hermione had practically collapsed at their first meeting, he was sure he had blown it all to hell once again. But then they had started working in earnest, and Draco had allowed himself to hope. It was all there—the spells, the names, even maps of magical places and endless hints and jibes—just waiting for her. But time dragged on.

Hours and hours of working with her at the bookshop, plus countless subliminal spells and sensory cues woven by himself and Nora, and they had nothing to show for it but an increasingly delicate Granger. With each new cue Granger's reactions became increasingly volatile; it seemed that failure was inevitable, and each day led to the disintegration of her mind.

But Draco was not convinced. If Draco knew anything about Granger, it was that she was stubborn. A born fighter. Some people couldn't see past her famed intelligence but Draco saw it for what she truly was: a witch with a force of will so strong that it could not be contained. And Salazar be damned if he couldn't draw it out.

Before he could change his mind, Draco opened the door to Hermione's bedroom. It was airy and light, dust motes drifting in the early sun that drifted through the curtains. Hermione was barely visible over the top of her enormous duvet, which was thankfully blue instead of matching the hideous yellow of her pillows. The smell of cinnamon was even stronger in here, mixing with light notes of lavender and the musty comfort of old pages. Draco inhaled deeply then froze, contorting his face violently as he fought the sneeze that had firmly lodged itself in his sinuses. Damn Granger and her dusty books!

Working his facial muscles furiously, Draco picked his way over to the chair by the window, grateful that it was facing the window and not her bed. He didn't think he could stand watching her sleep.

"You're being ridiculous, Granger. You can fight harder than that."He muttered over his shoulder and settled himself into the chair to wait.

…

She was warm. Too warm.

Hermione shifted drowsily under her covers and felt the weight of what must be every blanket she owned shift on top of her. Groaning softly, her vision still foggy from sleep, she worked her arms up to her waist and slowly pushed herself up to a sitting position. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and tried to think. How did she get here?

She forced her brain to rewind. _Right. The field trip to Scotland_. There had been the train ride—Malfoy smirking the whole way—at least two hours of slogging through mud—a perilous trek down a hillside—a lake—and a missed appointment.

Hermione groaned in earnest. Once again, she had managed to make a complete arse out of herself in front of Malfoy. It came flooding back to her: the panic, the shrill voice, the hands on her face, and her desperate sprint back to the train station, all to find when she checked her calendar on the platform back in London that there had been no appointment at all. Of course.

A flash of white blond caught in the afternoon light streaming from her window and she blinked furiously, trying to clear her head. She had better be hallucinating.

But no, luck was not with her. Hermione watched, horrified, as a sleep-rumpled Malfoy stirred in the chair by the window and then turned round to stare at her.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Hermione blurted out, then cringed. Malfoy only looked amused.

"How's about I make us some tea, Doe?" He got to his feet, stretching gloriously, and even in her half-asleep, half-mortified, half-indignant state, Hermione had to admire him. Then she sat up, intrigued.

"You can make tea?" Malfoy's eyes narrowed and she shrank away. "Right. I'll just—" and she scampered into the bathroom without a backward glance.

Twenty-five minutes later Hermione was washed and dressed in her baggiest jumper and leggings, cradling a mug of perfectly adequate tea as she sat on the edge of her couch. Malfoy was staring at her imperiously from her armchair, but the effect was rather ruined by how completely out of place he looked in her sitting room. Hermione's flat was a combination of styles that she had accumulated from a variety of thrift stores and yard sales, mostly in brilliant bright colors, and it was cozy but barely controlled chaos. Even after sleeping upright in a chair, Malfoy was immaculate; his hair was neat again, his steel-colored jumper neatly pressed and his shoes were glinting up from her shag rug. To say he didn't fit in was a definitive understatement.

Finally meeting his eyes, Hermione was surprised to see the intensity burning in them. He seemed to look straight through her, picking her thoughts out of the air without needing to speak. Hermione squirmed under his examination. The silence stretched thinly between them for a few beats until she broke it, unable to hold in her nervous energy.

"Why are you in my flat, Malfoy?" There, that was a solid start. Cool, detached-ish. Perfect.

"Why didn't you show up to work for three days, Doe?" Damn. He was definitely cooler and more detached.

Then she registered what he said, and Hermione gulped. Three days! It was a wonder Nora hadn't busted her door down. And she had missed so much work! Mr. Craggins would almost certainly murder her.

Trying to quell the panic rising in her throat Hermione sat back, considering Malfoy. For the most part she avoided telling people about her episodes. Particularly snobs with shiny shoes. It just didn't tend to end well. And yet, here was the man that she had spent the past two months with. Surely if he could handle her work-related neuroses he could handle hearing about a few headaches. Right?

"I have these...episodes," she began slowly. "Sometimes they're not so bad. Just intense headaches or spotty vision." She stared determinedly at her mug, refusing to meet Malfoy's intense gaze. "But sometimes they're bad."

Haltingly, with much throat-clearing and furtive glance-casting, Hermione told Malfoy everything: the missing memories, the night she arrived on Mr. Craggins' doorstep, the headaches and memory flashes and dreams. Once she began it was like a dam had broken, and Hermione could not keep the flow of information inside her mouth; it bubbled up like lava from inside her, pouring out onto the rug as she clutched desperately to her mug of perfectly adequate tea.

She picked at her cuticle distractedly. How long had she been talking now? She could hear herself rattling off statistics from medical journals and essays on retrograde memory-loss couldn't bring herself to stop. Malfoy was listening intently, a slight frown playing at the corner of his mouth as she listed off source after source, reciting all her possible diagnoses and potential causes—

"What did you say?" He interrupted her, looking surprised.

Hermione blinked. "Head trauma, emotional trauma, drug overdose—"

"No, after that. Your last diagnosis." She ran her list through her head. _Imbalance of the humours, blood in the brain, a touch by the evil eye—_

"A curse?" Malfoy smiled broadly, and Hermione bristled.

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can't disprove it." She glared. Malfoy, however, looked intrigued.

"' _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ '" Malfoy said thoughtfully. Hermione frowned. "It's Sherlock Holmes," he said, as if that explained his willingness to believe in curses.

Suddenly he stood, startling Hermione into spilling her now-tepid tea across her lap. He sniffed slightly, then reached for his coat.

"Well Granger, you've given me a lot to think about." He shrugged elegantly into his coat, then looked down his nose.

"That book there, on the table. I've left it for you to read." At Hermione's look of horror, he quickly clarified, "It's not for work. It's from my own collection, and I thought you might enjoy it. Just think of it as a little...bedtime reading."

She glanced down at the table and picked up a worn copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_.

When she looked up again, he was gone.

* * *

 **The plot continues to thicken. Whose side is Malfoy on?**

 **Please review!**


	7. Chapter 6

January progressed without much incident, much to Hermione's disappointment. Rather than the cold anger she had been expecting, Malfoy's reaction to Hermione's revelations about her memories and episodes was a bizarre combination of unapologetic staring, abrupt questions, and general avoidance.

Unsurprisingly, she hated it.

 _She was tapping her pencil on her lip, trying to locate the dependent clause she was missing in her Latin passage. Suddenly, without warning, Malfoy's head snapped up and jerked her out of her haze of translation._

" _It's the memories, isn't it?" His eyes were gleaming with newfound understanding. Hermione was nonplussed._

" _Come again, Malfoy?" He rolled his eyes at her impatiently._

" _It's the memories! Come on—you said you get headaches randomly, but you also said that you get them when you try to remember your past. Do they feel the same?" His usually offhand manner had been traded for tense excitement, his eyes piercing Hermione's as he clutched at the arm of his chair._

 _Hermione blinked. What on earth was he getting at?_

" _Of course they feel the same, Malfoy—they're headaches, aren't they?" His eyes narrowed._

" _C'mon Doe, think about it. Do they_ feel _the same." Somehow it wasn't a question._

 _She squinted, then decided to humor him. Her headaches were a varied bunch, but she knew the memory-induced ones the best: a sharp, shooting pain between her temples and behind her eyes._

" _They're the most intense when I try to remember something specific, but I get them all the time between my temples, and a sharp pain behind my eyes. The doctors I spoke to said it could be my brain's response to trauma." She frowned. "It hurts there vaguely almost all the time though, so I don't know if it really means—"_

" _And they're different than, say, how you feel if you're tired? Or your neck is stiff?" He was undeniably eager now._

" _I don't know, sharper, maybe?" Hermione winced._

 _Malfoy sat back in his chair, looking determined. Then, without another word, he returned to his Greek, leaving Hermione even more confused than before._

There had been more outbursts, of course. Malfoy always refused to explain himself, feigning deafness or storming out of the study when Hermione questioned him, and with his caginess Hermione began to feel on-edge and suspicious. The idea the Malfoy would be looking into her memory-loss without including her grated on her; to Hermione, the loss of her memories felt deeply personal and Malfoy's private investigation made her spine crawl.

To top at all, in the final week of January Malfoy installed a locked filing cabinet in Room 2C. He made a grand show of unloading sheafs of paper into the cabinet, muttering seriously and shooting Hermione goading looks across the room, before locking the cabinet and stowing the key elaborately in his breast pocket. He refused to share his research with Hermione, refused to even tell her what was inside, but she knew, instinctively, that it was not information on the _Electus_ that he kept locked away inside.

Malfoy continued to pester Hermione with questions as the month wore on, and her rising suspicion led her to watch him closely as they worked together. Finally she resolved to discover the contents of the filing cabinet

The following Monday, Hermione began Operation Uncover Malfoy's Secrets (Because Really Who Does He Think He's Helping By Hiding Them) Part One. With Malfoy, she knew, subtlety was the key. Passive aggression. Sideways maneuvers. A silent game of chess between knowing adversaries.

But, since that wasn't really her style, she decided to arrive half an hour early in the morning just to beat him there and be done with it.

He was waiting disapprovingly for her by Mr. Craggin's desk as the proprietor glared at her blearily. Hermione bristled. _Game on._

On Tuesday, she thought she had her victory as she made her way through a Malfoy-less foyer at 9:00. She found him leaning against their study door, tapping his watch with an alligator's smile.

On Wednesday morning she found him seated at their doorstep at 8:30. He had built himself a throne out of the complete and annotated works of Aristides the Athenian to sit on while he waited.

On Thursday morning at 7:00 she discovered him resting his dress loafers on an ottoman made entirely from copies of _Osman's Dream: A History of the Ottoman Empire_ by Caroline Finkel. Hermione thought she might scream.

On Friday at 10:00 am, sharp, she took a Xanax and brought him a scone and a mug of pumpkin juice as a peace offering. Malfoy took it with a victorious smirk, and Hermione thought she might just spit in his mug next time.

She began taking her lunches in the study, hoping to get some alone time with her thoughts—and the locked filing cabinet, if she were being honest—and much to her chagrin so did Malfoy; some days she wondered who was keeping an eye on whom.

" _Is that a fig, Malfoy?" It seemed to Hermione that every day Malfoy's packed lunches got more elaborate._

 _Malfoy froze over his lunch. He covered his surprise quickly with a sneer._

" _Of course it's a fig, Doe. What does it bloody look like."_

" _You brought a fig. In a packed lunch." She tried not to let too much of her amusement seep through into her voice. She failed._

" _Naturally, Doe. I'm not a heathen." His sneer was quickly turning into a scowl._

" _Clearly not, Malfoy. You're the epitome of refinement with your fig and your—"_

 _He moved quickly, popping the sliced fruit into Hermione's open mouth. Her eyes widened as his filled with unmistakable heat, his face just inches from hers. And then he was gone, retreating as quickly as he had moved._

Hermione shivered. That was another problem. Even when they worked at their desks at Wheedles and Budgery he moved very carefully around her, like she was made of glass, but she was more aware of him than ever. Hermione had given up trying to deny her attraction to Malfoy the day he had appeared in her apartment, and now it seemed she spent most of her waking hours trying to avoid jumping the man.

He was making it bloody impossible, too. Every day he made small excuses to touch her—a light hand on her back as she passed through the doorway, or a touch on her arm as he asked for a manuscript, or even the warm tingle of his breath on the shell of her ear as he looked over her shoulder—and he waged a war on her senses until she thought she might combust. Combined with his absurd questions and elaborate packed lunches and well-cut suits and witty banter, he was driving her mad.

The weather in January had even taken a turn for the worse, too, determined to further Hermione's downward spiral with endless days of foggy cold. The chilly, depressing air wormed its way under Hermione's skin and made her cold to her bones. It drew the furious pounding out of her neck and into her temples once again, and each day passed in a fog of pain, pouring over books and trying to ignore Malfoy's long fingers tapping along his jaw.

Honestly the only good thing about January was that Hermione was starting to sleep better. She had been slowly working her way through _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ —slowly being the operative word since she was so tired that she never managed more than a few words before she fell asleep. She blamed her exhaustion on the stress of her work and was grateful that Malfoy had yet to question her about it. He barely spoke to her these days but in clipped, monosyllabic sentences. Malfoy's search for the _Electus_ grew more intense by the day, broken only by long spaces spent staring into space or (more often) at Hermione. It was making her itch.

Was it pity? Not quite, she decided. Instead he looked at her like a maths problem that he was finally, grudgingly interested in solving. Thankfully this had been paired with a renewed dedication to their translation work and they had worked through more of the Latin and Greek sources in the past three weeks than all of November and December. Hermione had even started poking around in Old English texts but without much luck; the translation went so slowly that sometimes she felt like she was reading backwards.

This evening Hermione was waiting on Malfoy to finish a particularly snarled piece of Greek before she delved into the corresponding Latin. Malfoy had waved away her offers of help distractedly, pencil gripped between his teeth as he rifled furiously through his lexicon, hair rumpled from constantly running his fingers through it, and Hermione had retreated from the study lest she further distract him.

Without new leads for her to pursue, Hermione took to the corridors of Wheedles and Budgery with her notebook, searching the pages for anything she might have missed. Recently she and Malfoy had discovered a correlation between some of the Nonsense List words, pairs of words that seemed to always go together in their texts, and she was returning to her older notes to find more. This breakthrough, paired with the progress in the Greek and Latin translations, had definitely lifted Hermione's spirits. She still felt that they were nowhere near finding the _Electus_ , no matter the mad glint in Malfoy's eyes, but certain patterns were emerging in the small references they uncovered.

There was a theory, however, that she had yet to share with Malfoy; more than ever now Hermione was convinced that the _Electus_ was not a mystical object or document, but a person. Yet she held back, for fear of how it might sound—it seemed mad even to her.

"The chosen one," Hermione snorted. _Honestly_. Maybe it really was just a very well fleshed-out metaphor.

For there had been strong evidence in the texts they had uncovered of all the attributes Malfoy had told her when they had first met, particularly those that corresponded to its unknowable power. Hermione and Malfoy had found other patterns within their documents: an abundance of the number seven—seven this, the seventh that, the seventh month, over and over—strewn across the pages; references to great battles between good and evil, dark and light, the works. Tales of warriors. Knights in (mostly) shining armor. A chosen son, born to defeat an evil overlord. All and all rather a lot of masculinity all over the pages, Hermione noticed. She sniffed. Was it too much to ask for a feminist prophecy? She rather thought she'd make a good _Electa_.

Hermione returned to her notebook and sighed, mumbling her Nonsense List with growing intensity. These days the words felt permanently stuck to the tip of her tongue; she knew the pages by heart now, their curves and edges cut into her mind and branded on her lips, tumbling in an endless stream of staccato beats and steep silences.

Hermione paced Classical Architecture mindlessly, her feet winding through the stacks as she chanted the list, letting herself get lost in its rhythm. Each time she made a circuit of the section she picked up her pace, reciting with growing intensity as the syllables washed over her in waves.

" _Impervius, incarcerous,"_ Suddenly she could feel heat pooling in her hands like they meant to catch fire. " _Incendi—_ " _SMACK._ The the fragile shell of her concentration broke and she found herself staring into Malfoy's stony grey eyes. She had walked straight into him.

"That's quite enough of that, I think." He snatched the notebook out of her hand and stuffed it into the gap between two copies of Euclid's _Stoicheia_ on the highest shelf. Hermione stared.

"Come one Doe, let's get out of here."

…

Not three minutes later he was shooing her out the door, smirking easily over his shoulder at the grumbling Mr. Craggins and stepping into the foggy darkness. Malfoy put his hand on her lower back and Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin. The contact, even through layers of jumper and overcoat, made her tingle and she felt heat work its way up her face.

"Where are we going?" Hermione walked more quickly but the pressure of Malfoy's hand remained firm on her lower back, guiding her gently south along Bridle Lane.

"I thought we'd grab a bite to eat." He looked down at her and smiled, but the warmth didn't quite reach his eyes. "We've been in the study too long. It's time to do something more...stimulating." His eyes held an unknown intensity and Hermione looked away, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat as she struggled to keep up with Malfoy's long stride.

The evening was cold and a light rain misted on her cheeks as Hermione found herself wondering just what Malfoy was up to once again. He had never asked her to a meal before, for all that they ate their lunches together these days. What could be his motive?

Not that she disliked it—as they walked, Hermione reflected that Malfoy was quite pleasant company. Although he tended toward the sarcastic, he had a ready wit and a sharp tongue, and she relished the continuing presence of his hand on her back.

"Did you finish the Greek passage you were working on?" Hermione huffed the words out over her collar, turned up against the chill, and glanced up at Malfoy. His blonde hair shone eerily in the light from the streetlamps.

"Of course I did. But let's not talk about that right now." He glanced at her quickly. "How do you feel about the Mantle and Pullet? They do a mean steak and ale pie."

Hermione giggled. Somehow the idea of Malfoy sitting in a pub eating steak and ale pie was completely foreign to her. Malfoy scowled down at her, guessing the source of her amusement, but didn't comment. They made their way south in awkward companionable silence, finally coming into view of the pub on the corner of Archer and Rupert Streets.

At the street corner there stood a couple, framed by the light spilling out of the pub. Hermione couldn't see the man well but the girl was petite, with a haze of pale blond hair cascading around her shoulders.

Abruptly the girl turned, fixed Hermione with a pair of luminous blue eyes and smiled vaguely, tugging gently on the arm of her companion. The man turned around to look at Hermione, his dark hair framing a round face that was frozen in shock.

Hermione gasped, and Malfoy's head whipped around. Suddenly he was pulling her into the doorway of the nearest shop, bracing one hand against the lintel and wrapping the other around her waist.

"Malfoy, what on earth? I—" Hermione's heart stuttered, realizing just how close they were standing. Malfoy was breathing heavily, his fierce stare fixed on the couple by the pub. Slowly he turned to face Hermione and she examined his tense features. Was it fear she saw there? Then his eyes met hers and the change in the air was palpable.

Hermione inhaled sharply at the intensity in Malfoy's silver eyes; undeniable heat radiated from his gaze as he examined her in the light of the street lamp, the clouds of their breath mingling in the cold air. The moment hung suspended in the air, stretching out in an eternity of seconds, the strange couple on the corner completely forgotten. Hermione felt her stomach clench in anticipation—

He was there before she could even register the movement. Lips ghosted over her cheek as she exhaled, too afraid to move and break the moment. His breath was hot and humid on her face, and he smelled like peppermints and autumn. Slowly, almost painfully so, he moved down her face. She felt him hover above her lips, and they met her own in a glorious moment of soft and warm. He was slow at first, and tested and felt her lips as if memorizing the curves and dips of her mouth. He pushed his body flush against hers, pulling her into him with his hand at her back. The other moved from her cheek to the nape of her neck where it fisted in her hair, angling her head up towards his own. He probed slightly, pulling at her bottom lip with his mouth, and she responded, opening her mouth to let him in.

It was like a dam had broken, and suddenly he was everywhere. He ignited a burn inside of her chest and she responded in kind, all heat and touch and feeling. He was hard planes against her and she felt muscles ripple underneath his coat as he moved against her. Their tongues swirled and danced in the wet heat of their mouths, starting a rhythm that made her exhale in a huff. She felt a growing tension in her belly, and was sure he could tell, by the way his lips curved up as he moved to lave her neck. She knotted her hands in his hair and pulled herself up, pulling closer, and he let out a moan into her collar bone, burying himself in her soft skin.

He pulled back for a moment, looking at her. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving as he stared with heavy-lidded eyes that were swirling pools of grey. What she wouldn't have given to be inside his head, to hear his thoughts as he ran his thumb across her cheek.

He huffed out a sigh, then his eyes narrowed.

"Any headaches, Doe? Say, between your temples?" She blinked.

"No… No, I don't feel anyth—" His frown became a smirk.

"Then I think it is only logical to assume, Doe, that you have never been kissed like that before."

He pushed off from the doorway suddenly and Hermione felt the loss of his body heat sharply, the chilly fog filling the places where his hands and lips had been in a cruel imitation of intimacy. He paused for a moment, staring at her as he worked his bottom lip with his teeth, the rude flush smeared across his cheekbones visible in the dim light, then turned smugly, stuffing his hands back into his pockets and striding down the sidewalk back the way they had come. Hermione stood stunned, her mouth open in the doorway. _Did he just—did_ we _just…?_

"Come on, Doe! I'm starving. Fancy a bite?" He called over his shoulder, a faint grin still playing across his lips.

"Wha—what about the Mantle and Pullet?" She asked numbly. She glanced back. The couple was gone.

"Not tonight, Doe. I have a sudden craving for Italian. I know a place that has fantastic tiramisu—" he was at her side again. She swayed slightly, her traitorous fingers coming up to feel her lips.

"Having trouble recovering, Doe?" He leered at her. "I thought it was time we try stimulating our minds in...other ways. Try to keep up." And he winked. The _bastard_.

Hermione reeled, then slapped herself mentally. _Get a hold of yourself, Doe! He's just playing games with you as usual. The...kiss—whatever it was, he was just trying to shock you._ She drew her collar up around her neck again, trying to ignore the lingering heat where his lips had been, and shuffled out of the doorway, groaning internally as she fell into step next to Malfoy.

January had been bad, but it seemed that February was going to be much, much worse.

* * *

 **Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for the long wait-personal life has a nasty habit of getting in the way of writing, and I wanted to get this right for you. Hopefully uploads will come more quickly now.**

 **So, finally some heat...what's Malfoy up to this time? Please review! Thank you so much to those of you who review on a regular basis, it really helps me keep it coming.**


	8. Chapter 7

_Then I think it is only logical to assume, Doe, that you have never been kissed like that before._

Draco kicked himself mentally as he whipped around, coat billowing in the chill air, collar turned up against the cold, and strode into the darkness of Hyde Park. The fog swirled around his ankles, tugging with cold fingers at the crisp hems of his trousers, a constant reminder of watchers hovering steadily out of sight.

Draco huffed a quiet breath as he half-jogged up the slight incline of the path, heels clicking on the wet pavement. _What. An. Arse._ What kind of line had that been, anyway? He really thought he'd had better. It's not like he'd never talked to witches before. This was nonsense.

But her hair had smelled of jasmine and coconut, and her breath had come in short gasps, and her lips—

The fog surged at his ankles, _keep moving, Draco_. He pressed on, not daring to cast the look over his shoulder that itched in along the nape of his neck. _Not my son!_

Think of something else. Anything else.

Dinner, needless to say, had been an awkward affair. Granger had barely touched her fettucine, and every time her eyes met his they would burn with challenge before she got so flustered that she would take an enormous gulp of her wine and start muttering. Honestly, that _witch._

" _Gosh Malfoy, how do you keep your shoes so shiny?"_

 _Granger was teetering dangerously on the edge of the sidewalk, held up only by her ferocious grip on the lapels of his Burberry coat. What the bloody hell was she on about? Shoes? Draco grabbed her shoulders to steady her. Bloody looney. He should have known she wouldn't be able to hold her drink._

" _And don't think_ —" _she pushed herself out of his grasp, wobbling determinedly in the opposite direction of her flat, "_ — _I didn't notice that you built your ottoman out of books on the Ottoman Empire. I'm not stu-upid, Mal-foy." She dragged the syllables of his name across her tongue with languid satisfaction, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment as she tasted the "y."_

" _Not stupid, eh, Gr_ — _Doe?" Draco called after her. He smirked, pacing slowly behind her_ — _no way was she making a quick getaway with such a loose command of gravity_ — _and his mind flashed back to the moment before the Mantle and Pullet._

What _in Merlin's name, had Longbottom and Lovegood been doing in the middle of Muggle London?_

 _At least, he had thought it was them. Merlin knew he hadn't seen those two since the Final Battle at Hogwarts, almost a year ago. If he were being honest, he had assumed they were dead. Most of them were._

 _But if it_ had _been Longbottom and Lovegood, he was bloody lucky that he hadn't lost Granger right then and there. If seeing his face back in September had sent Granger into convulsions, the sight of two of her closest friends could have done irreversible damage._

 _Thank Merlin Potter and Weasley were dead._

 _He shuddered. If they knew how close Granger had come to full, untested contact, Draco would be out on the street before you could say Crumple-horned Snorkack._

"— _not like you'd notice in any case, eh? Malfoy?" Granger was looking at him again._

 _Damn. One of these days he really was going to have to start listening to the bint._

" _What's that?"_

" _I said, it's not like you'd notice even if my hands really were on fire, would you?" She was giggling as she turned around, her face softly illuminated by a blue glow._

 _Wait._

 _Blue?_

 _Draco rushed forward. There, cradled in the palm of her hand, was a brilliant blue flame. It whispered across her fingers and Granger laughed delightedly, twisting and turning her hands as drops of brilliant blue rolled and dripped to disappear on the pavement._

" _That can't be real" he breathed._

" _You see, I'm not an idiot, Malfoy. I know it can't be real, since fire burns. And this, well, does not. So, ergo, ipso facto, et cetera et cetera, not real." She sounded pleased with her inebriated logic, but Draco was transfixed by the flame._

 _She had no wand. Nothing to channel her power. And yet, here it was, the bluebell flame that had become her trademark at Hogwarts. How on Earth had she produced such a well-contained specimen? Bluebell flame was notorious as a spell for its capricious nature, difficult both to cast and to contain._

" _I should put it in a jar."_

 _Draco's head snapped up. He knew that memory. He'd been the one to tip off Snape that Potter and the others were hiding something behind their backs during a particularly cold free period in first year. Snape had come away with Potter's copy of_ Quidditch Through the Ages _but Draco had glimpsed Granger's jar full to the brim of flickering blue flames as they reentered the castle. Was her memory working its way through the layers of enchantment, or was it just a drunken fantasy?_

 _Granger had begun to giggle uncontrollably, and only then did Malfoy become aware of just how public their surroundings were._

" _Of course I'd notice, Doe." He grabbed her wrists sharply, shaking her hands in a futile attempt to put out the flame before it attracted any unwanted attention._

 _Granger's giggles dissolved into breathless hiccups which Draco was determined to ignore, and he pulled her bodily towards him as she gasped—and then started to snore. Of course._

 _Draco swung her up in his arms, cursing whatever enchantment had made it impossible to levitate Granger anywhere, and started in the direction of the Tea Room._

" _When you snap out of this, Granger, you and I are going to have a long talk about your drinking habits."_

A rattling breath.

The smell of rotting flesh.

This kind of fog could only mean one thing: dementors. The sickly smell of rotting flesh lapped at his neck, teasing his fingers out of his pockets to pull his collar close around his jaw.

A faint scream worked its way into his mind.

 _No! Not my son! Draco—_

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, feeling the cool length of hawthorne thrumming there, steps quickening on the dark pavement. _It's not real. It can't be. The only sound is my footsteps. Count them—one, two, one—_

 _Dinner, Nagini._

He couldn't help it; he bolted. Spun on his heel, vanishing into the night.

Draco slammed back into three dimensions in the living room of his apartment and spun in a vicious circle, his wand at the ready.

Nothing. _Damnit._

He cursed his stupidity, apparating with dementors so close by. Not that they could follow him here, his flat was too well hidden for that, but even their peripheral presence made him ache and itch all over. His stomach twisted with visceral anxiety but he forced himself to walk to the hall and check the three deadbolts on his door. Draco shuddered out of his overcoat and hung it neatly on its hook, pausing for a moment to look at his reflection in the hallway mirror. Gaunt and pale, almost waxy with sweat and fear, he felt his hands slipping on the table in the blood. Blood? No, this was sweat, this was different—

" _Not my son!"_

He couldn't take it any longer. Malfoy bolted for the toilet, making it just in time to retch into the sink. His body heaved as he recalled the stench, the blood, the gurgling sound of his mother's last breaths. Malfoy shuddered, sinking to the floor, his clammy hands gripping the edge of the sink, and surrendered to the memories.

 _The Dark Lord came to Malfoy Manor on a Tuesday._

 _His arrival had been heralded by the appearance of more Death Eaters every day, until the cold and dark of their presence had permeated every part of the house, the once-quiet Manor creaking in her foundations with the presence of so many vicious bodies. Draco had stayed in his rooms that first week, watching each new arrival with growing anxiety, but then came Greyback. The screams and the laughter sometimes echoed up to his room, but he learned to ignore them. His days became filled with tensely polite disinterest, never sparing a second glance for anyone who entered the Manor._

 _But on that day, Draco knew there would be no more hiding. Lucius and Narcissa had been there to greet the Dark Lord at the door. Bellatrix stalked into the foyer behind him, mad eyes darting around the room, a nasty sneer curling her chapped lips, with a distant kiss on the cheek for her pale sister and a lascivious nod of the head for Lucius. There were others that followed but Draco didn't bother looking; Nagini slithered behind the Dark Lord and his entourage with silent grace, tasting the blood and evil in the air, her slitted eyes fixed on Draco. That night he went upstairs and counted the days until he could return to Hogwarts._

 _Weeks passed, and Draco arrived one evening to dinner to see the woman hovering over the dining room table; she floated gently, almost as if suspended in a dream. Draco made his way to his place at the table, molding his face into an apathetic mask, then flinched violently as she turned and recognized him. She was the frumpy Muggle Studies professor from Hogwarts, wasn't she? Burba-something? He started, realizing the Dark Lord was speaking._

" _Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the pure-bloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance... She would have us all mate with Muggles…"_

 _Draco's started. Hadn't that bint Granger taken Muggle Studies? Of all the foolish things for a bloody mudblood to do, this one might have been the most entertaining. What kind of vain muggle idiot wanted to study herself? He and Crabbe and Goyle had gotten a good laugh out of that one._

 _Draco turned his face to the Dark Lord, whose eyes were fixed on Professor Burbage. There was silence, and then—_

" _Avada kedavra! Dinner, Nagini." Draco felt the hot wet droplets hit his face. That was the night he started taking sleeping potions._

 _Granger, Potter and Weasley were brought to Malfoy Manor on a Saturday._

 _Draco was not permitted to stay in his rooms during his Easter holidays. Instead, he was forced to remain in the drawing room, socializing with some Death Eaters who had recently returned from a mission to Russia. Suddenly there was a noise from the front of the house, a great clamoring of voices and scuffling. Snatchers, it had to be. But why were they here? His mother's voice broke through the din._

" _They say they've got Potter. Draco, come here." His mother instructed, and the air froze in Draco's lungs the moment he turned to face the three prisoners._

" _Well, boy?" Fenrir snarled._

" _Well Draco, is it? Is it Harry Potter?" Lucius was not trying to hide his anticipation._

" _I can't_ — _I can't be sure." Draco said, unsure why he was not able to meet the prisoner's eyes._

" _But look at him carefully. Look, come closer." Lucius. Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgive—"_

 _Draco stopped listening as he fully took in the appearance of the three people on the rug of the dining room. The two on either side were Weasley and Granger, to be sure, but what in Merlin's name had happened to Potter's face? Draco schooled his features, trying to remain as neutral as possible. Guiltily, without even registering the decision, his eyes flicked to Granger's. He was met by her hard, challenging gaze, the fear and rage stirred up in her dark honey eyes._

" _Draco come here, look properly, what do you think?"_

" _I don't know." Draco turned his back on the three forms huddled on the oriental._

" _What about the mudblood then?" Greyback spat. He exchanged a knowing look with Bellatrix, their hungry eyes settling on the girl before them._

" _Wait!" It was Narcissa. "Yes,_ yes _, she was in Madame Malkin's with Potter. I saw her picture in the Prophet. Look, Draco. Isn't that the Granger girl?" Her eyes pleaded with him._

" _I—maybe. Yeah."_

 _Yeah. What a simple betrayal. But was this a betrayal at all? Granger and Potter and the Weasel meant nothing to him. Did they?_

 _Suddenly Bellatrix was pulling Granger away from the group the two boys screaming after her as they were dragged to the dungeon door. He didn't realize he was walking until his eyes flickered to his mother's and she gave a tiny nod. His pace sped up until he was sprinting through the halls back to his rooms, not allowing himself to hesitate as the screams followed him from the floor below._ The only sound is my footsteps. Count them—one, two, one, two, one—

 _He heard the next day that she had escaped with Mudblood written in her arm._

 _Narcissa Malfoy was murdered on Sunday._

" _It has come to my attention, Lucius, that your son misidentified the Potter boy and his companions." The Dark Lord was seated in one of the great chairs in the drawing room, Nagini twisting her way around the chair, Bellatrix at his right hand._

" _An honest mistake, my Lord. He was deceived by the mudblood's trickery_ — _he never said that it wasn't the boy, just that_ —"

" _Silence!" The Dark Lord hissed, his dark eyes flashing. "I will have no more of your excuses, Lucius. You are already useless without your wand, though your home has been most…" he smiled cruelly. "Accommodating. In any case, I believe that Draco could be better used out in the field with the rest of my Death Eaters. Perhaps under the supervision of Greyback and his company."_

 _Draco felt the earth drop out from beneath his feet. The field? And with Greyback? He glanced furiously up at his father, but Lucius' head was already starting to bow in broken consent._

" _No."_

 _Draco's head whipped around to find his mother standing behind him, her face flushed but determined. The Dark Lord leaned forward, a malicious grin distorting his snake-like features._

" _I beg your pardon?"_

" _No." Her voice was stronger this time. "You already have his mark, my Lord." Draco's hand twitched reflexively to his left forearm._

" _Why Narcissa, this_ is _unexpected." The Dark Lord's long fingers stroked Nagini's flat head. "Do you hope to make an example of your son?"_

" _We have given you our loyalty, my Lord." It sounded like a question._

" _I will most certainly make an example of him, my sweet Narcissa." His voice was dark with a humour known only to him. "Though perhaps you are right. Perhaps I do not need another Malfoy after all." He sighed sharply._

" _Dinner, Nagini."_

 _The snake leapt from her place at the Dark Lord's side, a streak of sinew and flash of fang. Suddenly, without any warning, Draco was slammed to the side as his mother shrieked. "Not my son! Draco—" Draco watched in horror as the enormous unsheathed fangs sank into Narcissa's neck as Nagini struck again and again, driving her kill to the ground._

 _The next thing he knew, Draco was clutching his mother while she gargled, the gaping wounds in her neck and chest weeping blood as she gasped for breath. His fingers slipped in the blood as he pushed her hair back from her face, the light rapidly draining from her eyes._

" _You can't have my son."_

When Draco came to he was on the floor of the toilet, his clothes sticking to his back. He swore. He was going to need a stiff drink. And a sleeping potion.

As he made his way to the liquor cabinet, Draco assessed his injuries. A bruised head, some minor scrapes and a sore back from carrying a sleeping Granger back to her flat. Not too bad, all things considered. If the bint had stayed conscious with her fiery hands, the injuries could have been much worse. Draco poured himself a generous glass and knocked it back, the firewhiskey burning a trail to his stomach.

" _You can't have my son."_

His mother's sacrifice had made it possible for him to escape Malfoy Manor and the Dark Lord before he was killed like his father. He hadn't been there that day. On that day, he had met with the Order of the Phoenix.

Draco poured himself another glass and drained it, wincing. He just hoped Granger got her memories back before his killed him.

* * *

 **Oh goodness but it's been a long time. Thank you for sticking with me even as life overtakes writing, and chapters suddenly become few and far between. I can't make any promises about how quickly new things will come out, but please know that I'm always thinking of this story and working on it even when new material isn't being published. No way am I abandoning these two to their own devices! We've got an _Electus_ to find, and memories to restore, and an M rating to earn.**

 **So, please review! Your thoughts and support are what keep these updates coming.**

 **Dialogue for Professor Burbage and the scene in the drawing room are adapted from JK's original dialogue. I own nothing-all the credit goes to Madame Rowling, I just borrow her ideas from time to time!**


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